


Hold Your Hand

by GentlyMad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Neglect, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Oral Sex, Scientific Inaccuracies, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GentlyMad/pseuds/GentlyMad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six-year-old Kevin Tran is found dead after supposedly falling off the roof of his Chicago apartment building. The boy’s friend and neighbor, Dean Winchester, immediately suspects foul play and will go to whatever means necessary to prove it.  The trail he finds will lead him through an intricate corporate and scientific conspiracy that endangers Dean’s life as well as that of his family. Making matters even more complicated is the presence of Castiel Novak, a mysterious neighbor who could turn out to be Dean’s greatest ally or worst enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start by saying that at least 90% of this story does not belong to me. It is a reworking of the film, Smilla’s Sense of Snow, directed by Bille August with screenplay by Ann Biderman, which was based off the novel by Peter Hoeg. Dean has taken over as Smilla (played in the film by Julia Ormond) and Castiel is The Mechanic (played by the oh-so-sexy Gabriel Byrne). I can’t really tell you why, but the concept of turning this film into a Destiel fic has been nagging at me for quite some time.
> 
> I also feel the need to apologize in advance for what I have done to the character of Linda Tran. Let it be known – I LOVE LINDA TRAN, she is smart and badass and I’m pretty sure is the star of Dean’s older woman fantasies, that being said, I put her into the role of a neglectful parent strictly for the sake of storytelling and because I felt that Kevin was the only character that would get the emotional reaction necessary to take over the part of Isaiah. I think it works, but I still feel shame.

It had been a long, tiring day at the auto body shop and Dean was happy to get off the commuter train and walk the few blocks to his apartment. It was mid-December and there was a healthy chill in the air and freshly accumulating snow on the sidewalk. He flipped up the collar of his coat and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. He heard sirens rapidly approaching him, but in this part of Chicago it wasn’t terribly out of the ordinary. The ambulance blew past him and turned right at the next block, the block where Dean lives. It doesn’t register that there is anything to be concerned about until he turns the corner. The ambulance and several police cars are parked in front of his building. A small crowd of people has converged on the sidewalk behind a stream of yellow and black police tape.

 

Dean runs, pushing his way through the crowd until he sees the small body of a boy lying face down in the snow on the sidewalk, a pool of blood creating a morbid halo around his head. He sees the boy’s mother, Linda, being held back by two police officers. She’s screaming, inconsolable, and Dean hops the police tape to get to her.

 

One of the many officers on the scene grabs his arms and starts to drag him back. “This is a crime scene, you can’t be here,” he says gruffly.

 

“I live here,” Dean shouts, trying to pull away. The officer demands to see his identification, but by that time Linda has spotted him and throws herself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably, causing the officer to stand down.

 

“Why, Dean? Kevin! My baby. Why,” she sobs into his chest. Dean holds her for a minute before stepping back and letting a female officer lead her back inside to her apartment. He turns just in time to see the paramedics lifting Kevin’s lifeless body onto a gurney.

 

Dean stops one of the cops coming out of the building. “What happened?”

 

The officer looks up to the top of the building, and shakes his head. “He was up playing on the damn roof. Poor kid fell.”           

 

Dean sprints up the six flights of stairs and through the door to the roof where a detective is standing with a photographer who is currently documenting the scene. He immediately begins to survey the area himself; his eyes follow Kevin’s tiny tracks as they move from the doorway straight to the edge of the building.

               

At the sound of footsteps, Dean turns to see one of his neighbors walking hesitantly through the door and onto the snow-covered roof beside him. “I f-f-found him,” the man says quietly.

 

Ignoring the man beside him, Dean calls out to the detective. “What was he running from?”

 

“Who are you,” the detective shouts.  

               

“I’m Dean Winchester; I live upstairs from the boy. This is Castiel Novak,” he says, gesturing behind him with a tilt of his head. “He lives on the ground floor.”

 

“Well, you’re not allowed up here,” the detective says, turning his attention back to the photographer.  “What the hell was he doing playing up here all by himself?” The photographer shakes his head and snaps another picture.

 

“Doesn’t really look like he was playing to me,” Dean says, grimly.

                

Get those two downstairs,” the detective barks at a nearby police officer.” 

                

“I’m just saying,” Dean presses, “His tracks run a perfectly straight line from the door right to the edge. That’s not how kids play.”

                   

“I said to get them out,” the detective shouts.

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

Dean walks in a fog down to the second floor where Linda Tran is standing in her living room, clutching a bulky woolen sweater around her tiny frame in one hand and a half full wine glass in the other. Police officers seem to be everywhere, a constant stream buzzing up and down the stairwell and in and out of her apartment.

               

“What have I done, Dean? There must be something. First my husband, and now my only child, why,” she sobs.

 

“I don’t know, Linda,” is all he can say, wrapping strong arms around her.

             

They want me to go to the morgue tomorrow and sign papers for his autopsy,” she cries, shoulders shuddering with her sobs. “How am I supposed to do that, Dean?”

 

“Wait, why are they going to do an autopsy if they think it’s an accident?”

 

“I…I don’t know,” she whimpers. “How…”

 

“I’ll go, Linda,” Dean says quietly, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’ll do it.”

 

**~  ~  ~**

             

Dean arrives at the Cook County Morgue early the following afternoon. He’s met by a heavyset man in his fifties with heavy-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Winchester,” the man says, extending his hand, “I’m Dr. Frank Devereaux. Follow me, please.” He’s led into a cold, white room that smells heavily of disinfectant. There’s a gurney in the middle of the room with a small form, covered by a white sheet. The doctor takes the top of the sheet and pulls it down to reveal Kevin’s tiny, pale body. Dean’s shoulders slump and he drops his head, nodding. It’s so surreal, he feels like he’s watching a movie, or in the middle of a dream.

 

Devereaux nods and covers up the body before turning to make some notes in the chart.

 

“Goddamnit,” Dean says, quietly, closing his eyes against the tears that threaten to overtake him.

 

“I’m truly sorry,” Devereaux says sincerely, pausing to look at Dean. “I’m a parent myself. No matter how many times I see this, I just can’t imagine…” his voice trails off, because really what can he say.

 

“No, uh, I’m not his father,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “I… we were friends.”

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

The first time Dean met Kevin Tran, he had been in his apartment researching some of the new model Chevys. As far as he was concerned, nothing would ever beat his ’67 Impala; nevertheless it was his job to know how to fix them all, even though he sees the introduction of computers into automobiles as something akin to witchcraft.  He’s just starting in on the aerodynamics when a steady, rhythmic thumping against the outside of his apartment disrupts him.

 

“Knock it off,” he yells from the couch before going back to his article. The silence lasts for approximately two minutes. “What the hell,” he mutters, stomping over to the front door. Yanking the door open and braced for a fight, Dean is met by a scrawny, dark-haired, grubby boy in jeans and a t-shirt, not more than six years old, holding a well-worn basketball in his hands.

 

“Hey, beat it kid,” Dean snaps. “Take your ball somewhere else, I’m trying to work.”

                

The kid just stares at Dean with large, dark brown eyes for a minute before asking, “Will you read me a story?”

           

“What? No, I won’t read you a story. I told you, I’m trying to work, now scram!” Dean goes back inside and slams the door. He doesn’t even make it back to the couch before his doorbell rings.

 

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to summon some patience before opening the door again. When he does, he finds the little boy standing solemnly at his threshold. “Still here, huh? Listen, kid, I don’t have time for your shhh... stuff. Why don’t you go find some little friends your own age?” The boy stares up at him without saying a word.

 

“I get it; I know I must look like a really awesome dude to hang out with, but you and me kid? This buddy comedy just ain’t gonna work.” The boy just stands and stares until Dean relents and pushes open the door to his apartment with a sigh.

 

Dean reclaims his spot on the worn leather couch and pats the cushion beside him. Still silent, the boy climbs up, sitting with his hands in his lap, watching expectantly. Dean goes back to his article and starts reading aloud, “Computational Fluid Dynamics (or CFD for short) is the hyper-color software world where wind flow and drag are visually modeled around a vehicle. Think of an infrared color map where red is hot and blue is cold, and the rainbow of colors in between represent differences in drag and temperature. In developing the new Stingray, Bednarchik and CFD Engineer Richard Berger studied a virtual model of the vehicle in countless environments, displayed in a vibrant visual heat map for easy reading.”1

 

Dean drops the magazine into his lap and turns to the boy, “Come on, you can’t tell me you think this is fun.” The kid just stares back. “Fine,” Dean huffs and goes back to reading.

           

“Once the numbers were crunched in CFD, they were taken into the wind tunnel for ‘confirmation and validation testing.’ Bednarchik, a pair of clay modelers and Stingray design manager Kirk Bennion worked through each reduced-scale version in the flesh, using the wind tunnel to “develop the exterior surface to meet aerodynamic drag and lift requirements.”2 Dean drops the magazine back into his lap and starts sniffing. “Hey, no offense kid, but you stink.”

 

A battle rages inside Dean’s head. A large part of him is screeching, “Hey, dumbass, you don’t bring little boys you don’t know into your apartment and get them naked in your bathroom!” But all the rest of him can see is a sad little kid that probably hasn’t had a bath in a week. In the end, he decides to hell with his fear of bad touch and he draws a bath with plenty of bubbles and gives the kid a wide berth so he can undress and climb in the tub. Dean picks up the dirty clothes and they reek so badly, he seriously thinks about burning them.                     

 

The kid is pretty much just hanging out in the tub, every once in a while sculpting something out of the mountain of bubbles, but never speaking. Dean passes him a washcloth and bar of soap and tells him to scrub. He’s never been good with awkward silence, and this is getting painful. “So, uh, what kind of stuff are you into? Comic books, video games, loose women?”

 

 Nothing.

 

 “I’ve seen you around with your mom. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

 

Crickets.

 

“What about your dad?”

 

“My dad is dead,” the boy whispers.

 

“Oh,” Dean says, shocked at finally getting a response. “Mine too.”

 

“Do you have a mom,” the boy asks.

 

“Not anymore, she’s dead too, but I think about her all the time,” Dean says, scrubbing shampoo into the boy’s scalp, careful not to let it drip down into his eyes.

 

The boy is quiet for another minute before he asks, “When you were little, did your mom read you stories?”

 

Dean tenses a little at this. His mother died when he was only four years old, but he could still remember snuggling against her as she sat on the side of his bed telling him stories. She smelled like lavender and her blonde hair glowed in the light from the small table lamp. Dean remembers thinking that she looked like an angel. “Yeah, yeah she did.”

 

 “What kind of stories?”                 

 

“Well, sometimes she read me fairy tales, you know, brave princes who ride in to rescue the damsel in distress. Other times she told me stories about her when she was growing up, like how her father would take her out into the forest and teach her all about nature and how to hunt…”

 

“Hunt? Like bears,” the boy asks with wide eyes.

 

Dean barks out a laugh, mostly because he can actually picture Mary in her flowery dress and long, blonde hair staring down a grizzly with a shotgun in her hands. “Nah, man, I think she mostly stuck to birds, and rabbits, maybe a deer.”

 

“Your mom was brave,” Kevin says.

 

“She sure was,” Dean says wistfully.

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

It was never a conscious decision, but it wasn’t long before Dean fell into the roll of Kevin’s guardian. He had spoken to the boy’s mother, Linda, but he got the distinct impression that she was more interested in her wine than her son. Nevertheless, she seemed pleased that Dean had taken an interest in the boy and had no problem with them spending time together. Dean started picking up kids books from the used bookstore and made sure he always had some fresh fruit in his kitchen. On the weekends the two of them would walk down to the nearby park and then pick up a pizza and spend the rest of the afternoon watching football.

 

His mind drifts to a conversation they had when he took Kevin to Shedd Aquarium that summer. They had just finished eating giant, dripping ice cream cones and were leaning against the railing, watching the sea otters climbing and diving off of the wet rocks.

 

“Dean,” Kevin says, staring at his feet, “Can I go home with you?”

 

“What’s the matter, squirt, you tired out already,” Dean teases.

 

“No. I mean, can I stay with you? At your house?”                  

               

Dean is pretty sure he can actually feel his heart breaking. “Come on Kev, you know you can’t do that. Who will watch out for your mom if you stay with me? Besides, I’m just upstairs, you always know where to find me.” Kevin doesn’t look like this is much comfort as he rubs a fist against his right ear.

 

“Your ear bothering you again?” Dean knew the poor kid had been suffering with chronic ear infections, but Linda couldn’t be bothered to take him to the doctor. He made a mental note to have Bobby could call him in a prescription.

 

“No, it’s fine,” Kevin says, unconvincingly.

 

“Hey, you want to learn something cool,” Dean, asks, trying his best to sound upbeat. “When we were growing up, my brother, Sammy, had this friend that was deaf. He could read lips, but he also spoke in sign language. Do you know what that is?”

 

Kevin shakes his head.

 

“It’s where you use your hands to make signs for letters and words.” Dean lifted both hands and slightly curled his index fingers, hooking them together in one direction and then again in the opposite direction. “Know what that means?”

 

Another head shake.

 

Dean makes the gesture again and says, “It means, ‘friend’.”

 

Kevin makes a good effort at replicating the gesture and smiles at Dean.

 

“Friend.”

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

“It’s such a tragedy,” Devereaux says, pulling Dean back to the present. “A child so young, dying in an accident like that.”                

 

“It wasn’t an accident,” Dean says firmly.

             

Devereaux doesn’t say anything, but raises an eyebrow.                  

 

Looking back to the other man, Dean asks, “Did you do the autopsy?”                 

 

“It was routine,” Devereaux says, turning away.                  

 

“That wasn’t the question.”          

 

“Dr. Adler,” the man says with a sigh.

               

“Adler? Who’s that?”

 

“Zachariah Adler. He’s a well-respected and very influential figure in the medical and scientific communities. He’s the founder of the Institute for Progressive Medicine.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dean muses. “Why would someone of his stature be performing an autopsy on a six year old if there didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary?”

 

“It was routine,” the doctor repeats.                  

 

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean huffs, heading for the door.

 

“Mr. Winchester,” Devereaux calls out. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, looking him in the eye and handing him one of his business cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits for car article quotations:
> 
> 1,2 http://www.chevrolet.com/culture/article/fluid-dynamics.html


	2. Chapter 2

Dean is deep in thought, trudging up the stairs to his apartment when he hears Castiel’s door open behind him. Dean doesn’t turn around, but he stops and closes his eyes. “His feet must have been cold. I should have gotten him some good shoes for the winter. When I saw him lying there in the snow, you know, I kept staring at the holes in those damn sneakers. Kid must have been freezing.”

  

“Do you want to come in for a drink,” Castiel asks from where he is leaning against the doorjamb.

 

“I, uh… I’m trying to cut back, actually.”                  

 

“I…I could make…I mean, if you are hungry…”                  

 

“Look, man,” Dean snaps, whirling around to stare down at his neighbor. “I don’t know exactly what it is that you want, but whatever it is, I’m not that guy. Okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay.  G-g-good night, D-Dean,” Castiel stammers, turning to go back inside.

 

The little voice in Dean’s head is chanting a firm, “Go upstairs. Do not engage.” Unfortunately, Dean never has been much for listening to that little voice. “Do you always stutter,” he asks?

 

“N-no,” Castiel answers, suddenly fascinated with his shoes.

  

“So, I make you nervous?”

 

Castiel just swallows and looks up at Dean.

 

He’s not sure what it is that sets him off, but Dean is suddenly pissed. “You think I don’t notice you and your creepy staring? What did you think? That we’re both so upset that we’d get drunk and fuck all our pain away,” he yells.

 

“It-it’s okay to be upset, Dean. I loved him, t-too.”              

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Dean says, rubbing his forehead and taking a deep breath before heading back up the stairs.            

**~  ~  ~**

 

Dean had to admit that he was shocked when he received the call from Adler’s assistant saying that the doctor had agreed to a brief meeting between appointments if Dean could make it to his office within the hour. He’d barely hung up the phone before he grabbed his coat and told his boss that he needed to take an early/long lunch and started running for the train.

 

He’s not really surprised when he enters the Institute for Progressive Medicine building downtown. It’s all glass and brushed metals, bright and modern and ostentatious. The security guard in the lobby eyes Dean suspiciously, but calls up to Adler’s office to confirm his appointment. After being given the okay, the guard escorts Dean to the elevators and slides in his key card, apparently the only way to gain access to the top floor.

 

Adler’s assistant, a pretty blonde with a tight suit jacket and tighter skirt, gestures for Dean to take a seat on the slim black leather couch. Sexy secretary, it’s a good cliché, Dean thinks. He sits for about twenty minutes trying to figure out what the hell the modern “art” pieces hanging on the wall are supposed to actually be, before the woman ushers him into Adler’s office.

 

Adler’s a well-dressed, balding man in his fifties or sixties. He has the kind of plastic smile that puts Dean’s teeth on edge.

 

“Dr. Adler,” Dean says, reaching across the large glass desk to shake the offered hand, “Thank you for making time to see me.”

 

 “Well, you were rather…persistent. Now what is it I can do for you, Mr. Winchester?”

 

“You did the autopsy on Kevin Tran?”

 

“I did,” the man nods.

            

“What did you determine to be the cause of death?”

 

“Mr. Winchester,” the doctor’s voice is dripping with condescension, “The boy fell from the top of a six story building. The human body, especially such a small fragile one, is simply not capable of dealing with such trauma. Frankly, it would have been an anomaly had he survived.”

 

 “So, there were no signs of violence?”

 

 “Not at all. Is there a reason you think there would have been?”  

 

“Would it be possible for me to take a look at the report?”

 

“I’m afraid that is not possible. Those records are private and you are neither law enforcement nor immediate family. Besides, the information contained within is quite technical. I seriously doubt that you would understand it.”

 

Dean’s jaw tightens and he tries to mentally list all of the reasons he shouldn’t be punching this patronizing asshat in the face.

                    

“Mr. Winchester, “the doctor continues, “I can assure you that this investigation has received our fullest attention. If there were evidence to suggest some type of foul play, we would have found it. If the child had been defending himself, there would have been some trace evidence – skin cells under his nails, fabric fibers, et cetera. There simply was no evidence. Besides, I have examined the police report and it clearly indicates that the victim’s footprints were the only ones on the roof. Now if you don’t mind,” Adler says, standing and straightening his lab coat, “I have another meeting scheduled across town.”

 

“Well, I won’t keep you, Dr. Adler,” Dean says, getting to his feet and turning toward the door. “Just know that I will be filing a complaint with the district attorney and requesting a second examination by an independent party.”

 

Adler sighs like it is a physical burden for him to even have this conversation. “It is always difficult to accept the death of a child Mr. Winchester, but this boy was not even related to you. Why are you on such a mission?”

 

“We might not have been blood, but we were still family. His death was no accident; I know it in my heart. Proving that is my mission, doctor.”

 

“I have already explained to you that there is absolutely no forensic evidence to indicate foul play,” Dr. Adler huffs with annoyance.             

 

“Yeah, well you’ll have to excuse me if your forensic evidence doesn’t really mean jack shit to me right now. You know, Kevin had a phobia, doctor. Do you know what it was,” Dean asks. “Heights. He was terrified of them, almost a paralyzing fear.”

 

“That may well be,” Adler sighs, “But the fact remains that he still went up on that roof.”

 

 “That’s my point, exactly,” Dean says, walking out the door.

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

While on the train headed back to the shop, Dean’s mind starts to wander and he remembers Kevin knocking on his door late one night. He looked terrified and asked if he could spend the night. Dean let the boy inside, and then stepped out into the hallway to peer down the stairwell. He could hear Linda arguing with a man whose voice he didn’t recognize. His first instinct was to go down and make sure she was all right, but in the end he went back into his apartment and tucked Kevin into his bed.

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

It’s 7:00 on Friday night when Dean pulls the Impala into the driveway of a modest home in the suburbs just outside the city. He rings the doorbell and suddenly hears what sounds distinctly like a stampede headed toward him. The door flies open and a boy with curly brown hair yells, “Hello,” followed directly behind by a slightly younger carbon copy of the boy, “Hello,” he echoes.

 

“It’s about time,” a woman snaps, fastening an earring as she hurries down the stairs from the second floor. “We’re going to be late…” she stops and stares curiously as she gets a glimpse of Dean standing in the doorway.            

 

“That’s not the babysitter, dear,” says Frank Devereaux, steering his wife away with a gentle hand to the shoulder. “Come in,” he says to Dean. “We can talk in my study.”

 

They sit in leather armchairs in the dimly lit room, surrounded by overflowing bookcases. “I need to know what you remember from the night Kevin was brought in,” Dean says. No sense beating around the bush.

 

“Mr. Winchester, we get countless cases a year. You can’t expect me to remember every detail surrounding all of them.”

 

Dean knows he’s close, knows the man has something he wants to say. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Devereaux. Get it off your chest.”

 

The heavyset man wipes a hand across his face and Dean can see his resolve crumble. “We were unusually busy that night. It was the weekend, drunk drivers, Christmas parties...” The guy’s nervous. Dean sits quietly, waiting for him to continue at his own pace.

 

“I can’t even tell you what made me check...call it a hunch, I suppose. There’s this little trick I have - I hold a small light inside a piece of clothing to see if there is anything out of the ordinary. When I got to the boy’s jeans, there was a tiny, perfect hole in the left thigh. I went back to his body and sure enough, in that exact spot was a puncture mark, but there was no bleeding and the tissue hadn’t contracted.”

 

“What does that mean?” Dean already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Devereaux say it.

 

“It means that whatever caused it was done postmortem. Anyway, I went back and took a closer look at his jeans and noticed that there was larger indentation around the hole. The shape looked familiar to me, so I went and got a biopsy needle. It’s kind of like a syringe, but it’s larger and it has a handle. It matched almost exactly. I believe that someone jabbed the boy after he was dead to get a tissue sample.”  

 

“The paramedics?”

 

Devereaux shakes his head, “That’s not standard procedure. I questioned them about it later on and they both denied it, as did the orderly who admitted the body.”

 

Dean leans forward in his chair. “Adler told me he found nothing unusual during the examination.”

 

“I’m not surprised,” Devereaux huffs, “I had just started the autopsy on the boy when Adler came in. He was shocked that I had already begun and pulled me right off it; said that he would be taking over.” The man paused, considering his next words. “What do you think happened on that roof, Mr. Winchester?”

 

“I don’t know,” Dean says with a sigh, “But I’m not going to rest until I find out.”

 

They stand, Devereaux ready to usher Dean out when he stops and says, “There is one more thing…” Dean turns around to face him. “That wasn’t the first time I had seen the boy. He was at the hospital once a month for an examination…with Adler.”

 

“Are there any records of these visits?”

 

“None. On paper, they never happened.” Dean nods and turns to the door. “Mr. Winchester,” Devereaux says, “Don’t come back here again.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The day of Kevin’s funeral is icy cold, wind whipping through the bare trees that are scattered throughout the cemetery. Dean surveys the few people in attendance. Castiel is standing quietly beside him, Linda is at the front, flanked by two women – her family or friends, and standing discreetly at the rear are three men who look like business executives. They are most definitely out of place. The man in the center is tall and slender, with his hair slicked back and an expensive-looking suit and wool coat. Yeah, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but to Dean, this guy just radiates douchebag.

 

The old priest is praying as the attendants lower the tiny casket into the ground; Linda begins wailing and falls to her knees. The women at her side try to lift her to her feet and pull her away from the graveside, but are stopped by Captain Douchebag. He has a thick envelope, which he tries to press into Linda’s hands, but all this does is increase her level of hysteria. As small as she is, she gets right up in the guy’s face and screams at him, shoving him and the envelope away.

 

Following the ceremony they return to the apartment building, Castiel making a hasty retreat to the safety of his apartment and Dean going to check on Linda, whose emotions have been somewhat muted, no doubt from all of the wine bottles scattered throughout her living room.  

 

Dean gently takes her by the elbow and leads her into the kitchen for some privacy. “Who was that man talking to you at the funeral? What was he trying to give you?”

 

“I told him I wouldn’t take his blood money anymore,” she spits.

 

“Why does he give you money?”

  

 “They think they can buy my silence,” she starts in a drunken ramble. “First my husband, now my son, my Kevin.... I don’t want their money anymore. I told him. I don’t want it. I don’t have anything left for them to take.”

  

 “Who are they, Linda?”

  

Linda motions for him to wait and she goes into her bedroom, returning with a cardboard box filled with papers. Digging through the pile, she finally pulls out a letter on expensive cream-colored stationary and hands it to Dean.                  

 

“The board of directors at Roman Industries is saddened by the loss of your husband, Heng Tran. At this time we are prepared to offer you the enclosed settlement, as well as granting you your husband’s pension.”

 

“It’s signed Naomi Price. Who’s that,” Dean asks.  “Linda, who is Naomi Price?” But by then, Linda has retreated to the safety of her wine glass and just shakes her head without answering.

 

Frustrated, Dean walks to her side. “Can I take this letter?”

 

“What? Oh, yes, of course, Dean,” she mumbles.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Bobby Singer and his wife Ellen had basically taken over the role of surrogate parents to Dean and his younger brother Sam after their father died, even earlier than that if Dean was being honest. They had been close friends with John and Mary Winchester and when John began drinking and dropping out of sight for days at a time after Mary’s death, Bobby and Ellen always made sure that the boys had groceries in the refrigerator and hot food for dinner. It wasn’t always easy; Dean knew he put them through hell with all of the shit he pulled through the years. He eventually followed the couple to Chicago after his brother went away to college.  Bobby was a respected orthopedic surgeon and Ellen owned a bar and grill called _The Roadhouse_ on the outskirts of the city. It was a dimly lit, comfortable place where the locals could come to shrug off some of the city for a while.  

 

Bobby and Dean met up for dinner at The Roadhouse every Wednesday, if not more frequently. They nursed their first round of beer, conversation mostly focused on phone calls they had each received from Sam at Stanford. “Awesome,” Dean said when he saw one of the waitresses, Meg, headed over with their food. “I’m starving; I could seriously eat an entire cow.”

 

Bobby snorted as Meg set down a plate with an obscenely large burger dripping with cheese and bacon and a mound of Ellen’s amazing onion rings on the side. “Eat up, big boy,” Meg says with a smirk, before proceeding to place a grilled chicken sandwich with a pile of plain, steamed broccoli in front of Bobby.

 

“What the hell is this,” Bobby barks, eyes darting from his plate to Dean’s.

 

“Ellen said no red meat or any deep fried goodness for you. Seems your cholesterol is getting up there, grandpa,” Meg says with a wink and pat on Bobby’s shoulder.

 

Dean laughs as Meg heads back to the kitchen. “Shut up,” Bobby grumbles, snatching an onion ring from Dean’s plate.

               

After finishing his burger and plying Bobby with more onion rings, Dean takes a deep breath and asks, “What do you know about Zachariah Adler?”

  

“Adler? Smart man, he’s the founder of the Institute for Progressive Medicine.”

 

“Why would he have an interest in forensic medicine?”

 

“Well, he started out his career as a pathologist in Boston. Why do you ask,” Bobby says, eyeing Dean suspiciously.

 

“He did an autopsy on a boy, my neighbor. A six year old that supposedly died falling from a roof.”

 

“Huh,” Bobby grunted. “The only thing I can think is that it must have been good politics. It’s been my experience that Adler doesn’t do anything that isn’t directly beneficial to him.”

 

“He had an article published in a scientific journal about Mesozoic parasites. What are they?”

 

“Basically they’re prehistoric worms. What does any of this have to do with the dead boy?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” says Dean shaking his head. “There’s something here, Bobby, I just haven’t been able to put the pieces together yet.”

 

Bobby looks down, swirling his bottle of beer. “Ellen’s been asking if you’re coming over for Christmas dinner. I know Sam is going to spend it with Madison and her family, but Jo will be coming home and well, we’d really just like for you to be there.”

 

Dean knew that was hard for Bobby to say, he wasn’t a man who did warm and fuzzy. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he sighs, swiping a hand across his face. “I’m just not really in the mood for celebrating this year.”

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

“The Impala was restyled on the GM-B platform for the first time in 1961. The new body styling was more trim and boxy than the 1958–60 models. Sport Coupe models featured a "bubbleback" roofline style for '61, and a unique model, the 2-door pillared sedan, was available for 1961 only. It was rarely ordered and a scarce collectible today.”3  As Dean reads, he notices that Kevin is watching his mouth intently. Suspicious, Dean turns his back to the boy and continues reading.  

 

“The rare Super Sport (SS) option debuted for 1961. This was also the last year the top station wagon model would bear the Nomad name. Power brakes were $43.”4 He stops reading and turns back around. “Kev, what did I just say?”

  

The boy looks even smaller than normal as he fidgets on the couch. “Kevin? Tell me what I just said.  “Kevin,” Dean shouts and tears well up in the boy’s eyes.  “Goddamnit,” Dean yells, tearing out of his apartment and down the stairs. He bursts through the door of the Tran’s apartment to find Linda sleeping curled on the couch, still cradling a mostly empty glass of red wine.

 

“Linda,” Dean shouts, pulling the glass from her hand and shaking her awake.  “Linda, did you know that Kevin can’t hear? He’s had all of those ear infections and you didn’t do a goddamn thing about it and now he can’t hear!” Dean pulls her into a sitting position and shakes her by the shoulders.

 

“It’s fine, Dean. The doctors say he’s okay,” she slurs, trying to lie back down.

 

“What doctors, Linda? Who told you that? He’s not okay. He’s not.” Dean slams the door behind him in disgust and stomps back up to his apartment. Kevin is standing in the middle of the living room looking terrified. He begins frantically signing, ‘friend,’ over and over.

 

 “Kevin, it’s okay. Everything’s fine,” Dean says, crouching to the boys eye level annunciating clearly so that Kevin can better read his lips.

 

 “Friend,” Kevin signs again.

 

 “I’m not mad at you, buddy,” Dean sighs in annoyance.

 

 “Friend.”

 

 “Kev, stop. I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

 

“Friend, friend,” Kevin signs, pounding his tiny hands against Dean’s chest as he does.

 

Dean puts his hands on the distraught boy’s shoulders and squeezes gently. “Yes, Kevin, you’re my friend.” He pulls back and signs the word before pulling Kevin in for a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credits for car article quotations:
> 
> 3, 4 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chevrolet_Impala


	5. Chapter 5

Dean struggles through work the next day. He hasn’t slept, his mind is racing with theories and his boss is ready to have his hide after he very nearly drops the engine on a 1983 Mercedes 380SL convertible because he didn’t have it rigged properly.  It’s all he can do to not stop at the liquor store he passes after getting off the train on his way home and grab a bottle. He tries to convince himself that what he really needs is a hot shower and some sleep. Unlocking his front door, he dumps his backpack unceremoniously on the floor and hangs up his coat. He doesn’t even bother turning on the lights, heading straight for his bedroom when he suddenly notices a figure calmly sitting in the living room.

 

“What the fuck,” Dean shouts, jumping back and hitting the light switch while lunging to grab the cast iron skillet that has been sitting on his stovetop for the past month.

 

 “My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man says, rising calmly from the chair he had been occupying, holding his empty hands up for Dean to see. My name is Henricksen, Victor Henricksen. I’m from the district attorney’s office.”

                 

Dean eyes the man suspiciously, still hefting the skillet. “And you just broke into my apartment to make a house call?”

 

“It’s not standard procedure, but after reading your letter of complaint, I thought this issue might be better served talking face to face, and I didn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention.”

 

“Oh, well that makes perfect sense,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. He puts the skillet down on his small dinette and motions for Henricksen to take a seat.

  

“I spoke with Dr. Adler,” Henricksen starts. “He wasn’t terribly thrilled with your visit.”

 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t terribly thrilled with his face,” Dean says, because he’s mature like that.

 

Henricksen doesn’t react, just continues with his questioning. “What exactly was the purpose of that visit?”

 

“I wanted to know why he treated it as such an open and shut case. I wanted to know if maybe he missed some type of evidence because he didn’t believe there was any reason to look.”

 

“I read the case file and the medical report, Mr. Winchester. What triggered your belief that foul play might have been involved?”

               

“Not might have been; was involved. Look, Henricksen, we were kids once. When kids play they run around in circles and pick shit up and throw it and get distracted. Kevin’s tracks came out of the access door and went in a perfectly straight line, right over the edge of the building. No stopping, no hesitation marks.”

 

Henricksen studies Dean, considering his statement without comment.

 

“You think I’m some kind of crackpot,” Dean says. He’s not surprised; he’s never had the best track record with people in positions of authority.

                 

Henricksen leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “On the contrary, Mr. Winchester. Actually, I have had some concerns about this case since I first saw the file. After reading your letter, I felt that my suspicions were justified.”

  

“Really? That…that’s great. So you’re going to pursue an investigation?”

                 

“I assure you, I’ll do everything I can,” Henricksen says, standing and reaching for his jacket. “You have my word.”

 

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that,” Dean says, sincerely. He extends his hand, but when Henricksen grasps it for a handshake, Dean pulls him in for a brisk bro-hug, pounding the man firmly on the back.

                  

“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Winchester,” Henricksen says with an awkward look before disappearing down the stairwell.

 

Dean goes back inside his apartment and locks the door before pulling Henricksen’s wallet out from where he stashed it in the back of his jeans.  He doesn’t find much, some identification, credit cards, cash, but his heart starts pounding when he pulls out a photograph of the man who tried to talk to Linda at the funeral standing in front of a plaque with a familiar logo. Dean grabs the letter he took from Linda earlier and pulls it out of the envelope. The logo in the photograph is the same as the one on the letterhead, the logo for Roman Industries. A small hand written note at the bottom of the letter reads, “I’m so sorry,” signed Naomi Price.

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

Dean double-checks the address on the piece of paper in his hand before ringing the entry buzzer outside of a narrow, brick apartment building.

 

 “Hello,” a woman’s voice calls through the intercom.

                 

“Yes, hello Ms. Price, my name is Dean Winchester and I have some questions about Roman Industries.”

               

“I don’t work there anymore. You should contact the corporation directly,” the woman says before disconnecting.

 

Dean browses the list of buttons before pressing another, one floor below. “Who’s there?” comes a brisk, woman’s voice.                  

 

“Hi, I’m from Plant and Page Florist, I have a delivery for Naomi Price and she’s not home. Could you possibly buzz me in so I could leave it at her door?”

 

“Do you think I was born yesterday? I am not going to open the door for someone I don’t know,” the woman snaps back.

                 

He wishes he could see the woman in person, that old Dean Winchester charm is much more effective when he can look people in the eye. “Yes, I understand, and that is an excellent policy, but this is a very delicate arrangement, ma’am and it will die if I leave it out here in the snow.” A full minute of silence passes and Dean is ready to try another apartment when he hears the buzz of the door unlocking.

  

He’s almost to Naomi’s apartment when he hears a door open behind him. “You don’t have any damn flowers,” an angry voice yells. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m calling the cops!”

 

Dean quickly rings Naomi’s doorbell and slides the letter he took from Linda through the mail slot.                  

 

After a moment, the door opens and Dean is met by an elegant-looking woman, brown hair pulled back into a bun. She is dressed in a flowing, pastel sweater with a matching skirt and a loosely wrapped scarf, a large silver cross hanging from her neck.

  

 “He said he had flowers,” the woman downstairs yells. “Do you want me to call the police?”

 

“It’s fine, Mrs. Mosely,” the woman says. Thank you for your concern.”

  

 “Come in,” she gestures to Dean, gracefully. “I’m typically in prayer at this time of day.”       

 

The apartment’s décor is simple but elegant, much like Ms. Price herself. The walls are a bright white, with one almost completely covered in windows looking out onto a beautiful, snowy cityscape. There are fresh flowers and plants throughout the living area and a tiny Christmas tree decorated with hand-carved wooden ornaments.

 

“Heng Tran’s death was a tragedy,” the woman says solemnly, looking at the letter, “So sad for a young boy to grow up without a father. Family is fundamental, that is one reason that marriage is such a sacred institution.”

                 

Dean hummed in agreement. “Do you and Mr. Price have children?”

 

“There is no Mr. Price; I am the bride of Jesus. Now, Mr. Winchester, what exactly is it that you want?”

 

“The boy…he’s dead. The police say he ran off of a roof.”

 

“But you don’t believe them.”

 

“No ma’am.”

                 

“I met him once,” she says with a smile. “Such a beautiful child of God’s creation, so innocent. His mother was having a difficult time coping with the loss of her husband. I have prayed that she might find her way to Jesus.”

                 

Dean barely holds back his snort. “Yeah, well, only if He’s at the bottom of a wine bottle.”

 

The woman turns and smiles at Dean like she knows a precious secret. “He is everywhere, Mr. Winchester, even there.”

 

“Ms. Price, someone ran Kevin off of that roof. It was no accident.” 

 

“The devil and his legion can command many vessels.”  She utters these words so solemnly that Dean can’t help but think she is being literal.

 

“Do you know Doctor Zachariah Adler,” he asks.

 

“No, should I,” she replies evasively, turning to tend to a potted plant on the table.

 

 “Gotcha,” Dean thinks. “So he wasn’t working for Roman Industries?”

 

“Not that I recall, no.”

                 

“When did you meet Kevin?” 

                 

“Roman Industries had recently procured an existing oil drilling operation in Lake Michigan. Before work resumed under the new ownership, a team of scientists was sent to do some routine reporting. It was on that survey that the father died.”

 

“Mrs. Tran and her son came to my office to sign the paperwork when we awarded their settlement.”                 

 

“How did Mr. Tran die?”         

 

“There was an explosion, an unfortunate accident. Now, please, why have you come to see me, Mr. Winchester,” she says, annoyance creeping into her tone.

                 

“I’m just curious as to why the controller of Roman Industries would have such a guilty conscience that she would make a personal note to a widow on her settlement paperwork. I find that very interesting. What I’d really like, Ms. Price, is to get my hands on the report of the survey from Roman Industries.”

  

“The reports are archived in the basement of the building, but there is really nothing to see,” the woman says, her serene disposition becoming increasingly agitated.

 

“Thou shalt not lie, Ms. Price,” Dean said, arching his eyebrow.

                 

“I think we are finished here,” she returns, sharply, herding Dean toward the front door.

                 

Just as his hand touches the doorknob, she says, “Why are you so convinced that this wasn’t an accident?”

 

“Because I knew him, probably better than his own mother. I know how he played and how his mind worked. No way he just fell.”

 

Dean exits the building and barely hits the sidewalk when he hears the intercom, “Mr. Winchester…”

 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Dean says, jogging back up the steps and pressing the intercom button.

  

“Would you please come back upstairs for a moment?”

 

Naomi’s door is open when Dean arrives and she is already speaking, gesturing toward a book open in her hand. “As you walked out I felt the need to seek wisdom. I lifted my Bible and it fell open to this passage from Revelations 9:1, ‘And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit.’ They key to hell. You are the righteous man Mr. Winchester,” she says, closing her Bible. “How far are you willing to go?”

 

Dean huffs a laugh, “I’m far from righteous, but I’ve got stubborn in spades. I’ll go as far as it takes.”

              

“As I’ve told you, the archives are kept in the basement of the Roman Industries building. Of course, I am prohibited from telling you that the guards patrol the building on a strict forty-five minute schedule. I also cannot tell you that the key card hanging on the rack behind you opens the private door at the rear of the building’s west side.”

 

Dean turns and lifts the plastic card from the rack, turning it over in his fingers. “Thank you.”

                  

The woman meets him with a peaceful smile, “Someone has to guard the gates of hell, Mr. Winchester.”

**  
**


	6. Chapter 6

Late that night, following his visit to Naomi Price, Dean waits in the shadows of the alley adjoining the Roman Industries building.  He’s huddled against a dumpster near the rear of the building for about twenty minutes before he sees a flashlight sweeping the interior. He gives another five minutes for the guard to make his patrol of the area before going to the door and letting himself in with the key card.

 

The stairway to the basement is just around the corner of the second hallway Dean passes, and he finds himself in the archive room within a matter of minutes. The room is filled with row upon row of metal shelving and cabinets. There are cardboard storage containers and blueprints and large journals as far as Dean can see. Thankfully, the archives are arranged by date and Dean quickly finds the year of Heng Tran’s fatal mission.

 

Holding his small flashlight between his teeth, he flips through two large leather bound journals before he finds the one for the correct date. The first few pages detail the date, expedition goals and team members, including Heng Tran. He is not completely shocked to find Zachariah Adler’s name as well.

 

On the shelf, next to where he had pulled the journal was a large, rigid brown cardboard sleeve. Dean freezes when he thinks he hears a noise, but returns to his work after a few moments of silence. He opens the clasp on the envelope and pulls out what look like x-rays. Shining his light through them he sees what appear to be lungs with tiny white squiggles running through them. He hears the sound again. This time Dean knows he’s not alone. He shoves the images back into the envelope and tucks it and the journal inside the front of his leather jacket.

 

He can hear footsteps on the other side of the room and quickly turns off his flashlight. The room is completely dark and Dean slides in between two of the shelving units, but the footsteps are coming right up the row behind him. As soon as they are directly behind him, he shoves hard against one of the shelves, tipping it over onto a man who promptly swears as he hits the ground, bombarded by dusty boxes and books. Dean knows this is his chance, that he needs to run, but something in his gut makes him stay and shine his light on the man. Sitting up gingerly and brushing the dust off himself is a clearly mortified Castiel.

**~  ~  ~**

 

Dean is seething as they get off the train. It’s only a few blocks until they reach their building, but Dean doesn’t have that kind of patience and drags Castiel into the next alley and slams him back against the wall.  “Why the fuck were you following me?”

 

“I’ve b-been thinking about what you said. Ab-bout Kevin. If you’re right, I believe you are in d-danger.”

 

Dean pulls back, but still keeps his grip on the other man’s coat. He stares intensely into Castiel’s eyes, as if he looks hard enough he could suss out his true motivation. Finally, after Castiel clears his throat, Dean drops his hands and they walk back to their building in silence.

 

Against his better judgment, Dean follows Castiel inside when they reach his apartment. Castiel gestures for Dean to sit at his dining room table while he puts on a pot of coffee. His apartment is simple, sparsely decorated, but surprisingly modern.

 

“Kevin and I were friends,” Castiel said with a soft smile. “He always used to make me laugh. He has…had such a great imagination. He had this game where he would knock on my door and when I opened it, he would be something different each time – a monkey or an astronaut or a monster.” Dean laughs because he can picture it so clearly and he is happy to hear that Kevin was acting like a little kid should, not the quiet, scared boy he usually was.

 

Castiel lowers his head with a deep sigh. “Sometimes I would see, um…see him come home in a taxi. I…he always looked so…so afraid.”

 

 “Yeah,” Dean nodded. “He went for monthly examinations with Adler at the hospital.”

                   

 “Why?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know. But someone took a biopsy from him after he was dead and a very influential doctor took over the autopsy from the coroner.”

                

“How do you take your coffee,” Castiel asks, pouring two cups.

 

“Straight up, no cream or sugar to get in the way. Sometimes I just mainline the coffee grounds.” Dean pushes down the fluttering in his stomach when the corners of Cas’ mouth turn up in a small smile. 

 

They sit side by side at the table flipping through the pages of the stolen journal. “Kevin’s father was on a field survey at an oil rig for Roman Industries when he died. Adler was the medical consultant,” Dean says, pointing to the man’s name in the log.

 

Cas leans in for a closer look, his arm pressing against Dean’s. He’s so close and Dean can smell him, his cologne and sweat and some lingering mustiness from Dean’s shelf attack. His eyes are drawn to the small patch of skin between Cas’ hairline and shirt collar, and he definitely does not want to lick that. Nope, not at all. Shit. “You know,” he says quickly shutting the journal and standing, “I’m beat. I’m just gonna head upstairs and crash. Why don’t you take a shot at this and see what you find,” sliding the journal in front of Castiel.

 

Castiel cocks his head to the side and furrows his brow at Dean’s sudden need to escape, but he doesn’t say anything other than, “Good night, Dean.”                 

 

**~  ~  ~**

The next evening, Dean had just plopped down on the couch getting ready to watch the Blackhawks game when he was interrupted by knocking at his door. Peering through the peephole he sees a man and woman, both in suits, both holding up their police identification. “What fresh hell is this,” Dean sighs before plastering on a smile and opening the door.  

 

“Mr. Winchester,” I’m Detective Barnes, said the woman, this is my partner, Detective Walker. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

 

“Awesome, I know lots of words, which one would you like?”

 

“Would you mind coming down to the station,” Detective Barnes asks.

               

“I would, actually.”

                 

“Sorry, but that wasn’t really a request,” Walker says, grabbing Dean by the elbow.

                 

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Dean shouts, ripping his arm away.

  

A door opens below them and Castiel’s head is peering up the stairwell. “You don’t have to g-go if you don’t w-want to.”

 

Dean turns to Barnes, “Do you promise to bring me home safe and sound?”

 

“Right back to your door with not a hair out of place, sugar” replies Barnes with a sexy smile.

  

“I always was a sucker for a beautiful woman.  See ya later, Cas,” Dean says with a wink.

              

**~  ~  ~**

 

When they arrive at the precinct, the detectives escort Dean into a windowless interrogation room where Victor Henricksen is sitting on the corner of the table flipping through a file folder. “Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. Walker remains stationed by the door and Barnes moves to stand behind Henricksen, Dean’s pretty sure that’s just so she can check him out.

 

Henricksen spends another minute or two going through the file before turning back to the first page and reading aloud, “Dean Winchester, born January 24th, 1979 in Lawrence, Kansas. Parents John Winchester, deceased, and Mary Winchester, also deceased. Younger brother Samuel Winchester, enrolled in Stanford University law school. Currently employed as a mechanic at Campbell motors. Unmarried.”

 

“Impressive, I know,” Dean smiles. Are you trying to figure out who to cast as me in the film version?”                 

 

Ignoring Dean, Henricksen continues, “Detective Barnes here, has found some, let’s say, ‘juicier,’ details. Three stints in juvie by the time you were sixteen, expelled from high school…”

 

“I got my GED,” Dean interjects, proudly.

 

“Yes, you did, after serving your second prison sentence for larceny. What else, oh yes, credit card fraud, drunk and disorderly, assaulting a police officer, possession of an unlicensed weapon. Impressive.” 

 

“What can I say? I’ve got the whole bad boy thing going on. Chicks dig it,” Dean says, winking at Walker and slouching back in his chair.

 

“You think you’re awfully cute,” Henricksen says.

 

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean says, flashing his sweetest smile.

       

“Your file suggests an adorable pattern of deviant tendencies and anti-social behavior, not to mention a rather unhealthy attachment to the bottle. You’ve never really fit in anywhere, have you? I’ve got to say, I’m surprised that you have been stirring up such a shitstorm lately. Someone with your background would be wise to keep a low profile.”

                 

“Aw, what is it, Henricksen, don’t you like my hair,” Dean snarks.

 

“What we don’t like, Mr. Winchester, are your continuing efforts to interfere with this investigation, which I have already told you, will receive my full attention.”

 

“Yeah, I know what you told me. Fuck you, Henricksen,” Dean spits.

 

Henricksen leans over and lifts a small stack of papers from the corner of the table. “These files are among some that were stolen from Roman Industries recently. We found them in your apartment.”

 

“Never seen ‘em before,” Dean says with a bored look on his face.

 

“Mr. Winchester…may I call you Dean?”

 

“You may not, but thanks for asking.”

 

Henricksen continues with a smile, “You know, genetics just amazes me sometimes. For example, your brother is one hell of a smart kid.”  


Dean bristles at the mention of Sam, but tries to keep it from showing on his face.

 

“He is making quite a good impression at Stanford, there’s even word that some prestigious law firms have him in their sights, already. It would be a shame if something should happen to derail that. I mean, if he were to be caught cheating on an exam or plagiarizing his thesis…his career would be over before it even started. We wouldn’t want that to happen, now, would we?”

 

“No,” Dean mumbles, sitting up straight in his chair, all traces of snark and attitude removed.

 

“Excellent! So, we’ve reached an agreement?”

 

Dean grunts an affirmation.

                  

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. What did you say?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean grits out. “We have an agreement.”

 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Winchester,” Henricksen says with a smile. “Detective Barnes will be happy to escort you back home.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Dean spends the next several days locked inside his apartment, wallowing. The blinds are drawn and the lights are off. He calls his job and tells them he has the flu and can’t come in. He spends most of his days lying on the couch with a pillow over his head. He doesn’t eat, save some coffee and beef jerky. Someone knocks on his door several times throughout each day. His cell phone is blowing up with voice mails and text messages. Bobby calls his home phone and leaves a threatening yet concerned message when Dean misses their Wednesday dinner.

 

Thursday evening he hears something being shoved underneath his door. He ignores it for an hour, but grabs it when he gets up because he finally can’t go any longer without taking a piss. It’s an unmarked white envelope that feels like it has a greeting card inside. It can’t be anything good, so Dean tosses it on the kitchen counter and pours the cold dregs from the coffee pot into a cup. He drinks the bitter liquid in one chug and crunches the residual coffee grounds between his teeth.

 

It’s another hour before Dean picks up the envelope again. He twirls it around between his fingers for a minute before he wiggles a finger under the flap and rips it open. It is, in fact, an actual greeting card. “What the fuck…,” he says, looking at the picture of a tiny kitten hanging precariously from a tree branch. He opens the card and rolls his eyes when he sees, “Hang in There,” in bold print.

 

On the opposite side is a note written in a messy scrawl, “There is no need to suffer in silence. You are not alone in this.” It’s signed, Castiel.

 

When Castiel answers his door, Dean is standing there waving the card. “Really, dude? What the hell?”

 

Castiel blushes and diverts his eyes and the question. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, walking to the table and thumbing through the pages of the journal.                  

 

“I’ve been going through the reports and a crew was sent to survey the same oil platform a few months prior. There was a fatal accident on that trip as well, but I’m not so sure it actually happened on the platform.”  

 

Dean slams his hand against the tabletop in frustration. “Cas, man, stop. Just stop. I can’t be a part of this anymore. I’m out.”

                 

Castiel puts the file down and stands up, walking towards Dean. “Wh-what did they d-do to you?”

 

Dean turns away, unwilling to face those blue eyes that tend to look all the way into his soul. “It’s my brother. If I don’t back off they are going to ruin his reputation at Stanford and destroy his chances of having a successful career.”

 

Castiel moves behind Dean putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t,” Dean hisses, shrugging the hand off.

 

“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel offers.

 

“It’s alright,” Dean explodes. “What exactly about this whole fucked up situation is alright? Huh? Tell me, Cas, ‘cause I would really love to fucking know.”

 

Castiel stands his ground quietly, eyes focused on Dean.

 

“Shit,” Dean says, shoulders dropping. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

 

“Sit down,” Cas says. “Let me make you some dinner.”  Dean reluctantly takes a spot at the kitchen island and watches as Cas whips up an impressive spaghetti Bolognese with garlic bread and a small salad.

 

Before he takes his first bite, Dean realizes just how hungry he is from several days with no real food, his stomach growling like the engine of his Impala. “Oh my God,” he says around a mouthful of pasta. “Cas, this is amazing! I wish I’d known you could cook like this sooner!” Cas gives his little smile and beams as he pours them each a glass of wine.

 

Dinner is comfortable and they fall into an easy conversation as they pick at the last bits of food on their plates. “How did you end up in Chicago,” Cas asks, refilling their glasses.

 

“I spent my whole life in Lawrence, but after my dad died and Sammy went off to Stanford, I just couldn’t stay there. Everything that I had was gone. The town I grew up in and I felt like I didn’t even belong anymore.”

                 

“Where was your mother?”

 

“She died when I was a kid. There was a fire in our house in the middle of the night. Sammy, he was just a baby. I came out of my room and there was smoke everywhere and Dad shoved him into my arms. Told me to take him and get out of the house. Dad tried to get mom out, but it was too late. He was never the same after that. I guess none of us were. Anyway, I uh, I’ve been taking care of Sam ever since.”

 

“How old were you,” Cas asks, treading lightly for fear of frightening the other man away.

 

“Not even five,” Dean shrugs.

 

“That a tremendous burden for such a young boy.”

 

“I never felt like that. Taking care of Sam and my dad, was my purpose. They were my family, and if they couldn’t take care of themselves, then I would.”

 

“Dean…”

 

“He’s all I’ve got, Cas. I can’t let them do anything to him.”

 

“Can I kiss you?”

 

Dean pushes away from the table and is already headed towards the door. “This was great Cas. Thank you…for dinner and…you know. I, uh, I’m just, I’m gonna…you know, go back upstairs.” Dean rolls his eyes at the little voice in his head cackling, “Smooth, Winchester.”  

 

Before Dean reaches the door, Castiel closes in on him, approaching slowly like you would with a frightened animal. “Dean, it’s Christmas Eve. Please don’t go,” he says softly.

                 

Dean turns to find pitying blue eyes staring at him and all he really wants to do is kiss those damn chapped lips and card his fingers through the perpetual sex hair and carry Cas back to his bedroom. Instead, he hangs his head and says, “I’m sorry,” walking out the door.

 

Linda’s door opens just as Dean passes it on his way upstairs.                  

 

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” she smiles, looking calm and rested in her holiday sweater.

 

“Linda,” Dean smiles, pulling her in for a hug. “You look good.” 

                 

“I haven’t had a drink in five days,” she beams. “Come,” she says, pulling him into her apartment. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a battered cigar box. “Merry Christmas Dean,” she smiles. “This was Kevin’s treasure chest. He kept it hidden away. I want you to have it. Open it!”

            

Dean feels a knot in his stomach as he slowly opens the lid, letting out a small laugh as he sees Kevin’s Walkman.

 

Linda rests a hand on Dean’s arm, still smiling. “You gave it to him last Christmas. It was his favorite present. He never went anywhere without it.” It was true. That outdated hunk of plastic would have been junk to anyone else, but Kevin treated it like gold. Dean always made it a point to stop in thrift stores and pick up some used cassettes for the boy to play. As his male role model, Dean figured it was his job to make sure the kid developed an appreciation for good music.

 

Dean poked around the rest of the contents: a tiny green army man, a large plastic suction cup with a string tied to the end, a few loose coins, slips from fortune cookies, a button Dean recognized as one missing from his coat, something that looked like a broken Christmas ornament, and at the very bottom, a picture of Kevin and his father on a ship with a large oil rig in the background.                  

 

Dean’s brow furrows as he holds up the picture. “Linda, did Kevin go out on the survey with your husband?”

 

“Roman Industries had been looking for scientists to do a survey on the drilling platforms they had just bought. When Heng was accepted, they said it would be fine for Kevin to go, so we didn’t question it. His father thought it would be a good opportunity for him. I don’t know what happened,” she sighs. “Kevin had been playing on board the ship while his father was working on the platform. They took Heng to the hospital in a helicopter, but by the time they got there it was too late.”

 

“What really happened, Linda? Tell me,” Dean pleads.

 

“Be careful, Dean. This was no accident. Kevin told me that they found something in the melt water.”

 

“What kind of something? What melt water? How could Kevin have known that?”

                 

“His father told him.”

                  

“You just said that he died in the helicopter on the way to the hospital.”

 

“Dean, please. No more questions. Please.”                 

 

 “Who brought Kevin home, Linda,” Dean asks, trying to keep his voice gentle.

                 

 “Dr. Adler.”

 

 “Was he sick? Was Kevin sick, Linda? Is that why Adler had him taken to the hospital once a month?”

 

 “Enough, Dean,” Linda shouts, before turning back to her apartment. “Please, Dean, enough.”

 

   **~  ~  ~**

 

Dean jogs back down the stairs. He doesn’t bother knocking, just turns the knob and walks into the unlocked apartment where Castiel is washing their dinner dishes. Crossing the room in a blur, Dean takes the soapy wine glass out of Castiel’s hand and places it on the counter. He reaches up and takes Cas’ face between his hands, thumbs brushing lightly over the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, staring deep into pools of cerulean blue. Castiel looks like he’s in shock, he hasn’t moved and seems to have stopped breathing, but he doesn’t pull away. Dean means for it to be hot and hard, just taking what he has wanted for so long, but when their lips finally meet, it’s a soft, barely-there press of skin against skin. Dean loses himself in the feeling of the not-quite kiss, lips and foreheads pressed against each other, the beautiful scratch of Castiel’s stubble against his palm. He allows himself another minute before pulling away, dragging his thumb against Cas’ lower lip.

 

Castiel finally sucks in a breath and it snaps Dean back to reality, his eyes darting to the floor. “If we do this, we have to do it quick and we have to take them all down before they have a chance to get to Sammy.”

 

He’s not sure if he feels more disturbed or relieved when Castiel says, “We can keep him safe, Dean,” so he simply nods his head and walks out the door. He’s half way up the first flight of stairs and he can feel the blue eyes piercing into him.

 

 “Go to bed, Cas,” Dean says without stopping.

                  

 “Dean…”

               

 “Yeah?”

                 

 “You need to get rid of your cell phone,” Cas says ominously.


	8. Chapter 8

“Dean,” Ellen beams, swatting at him with a dishtowel as he hugs her and lifts her into the air.

                 

“It’s good to see you, boy,” Bobby says, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile. “I didn’t think you would show.”

             

“Yeah, I didn’t think I would either, to be honest,” Dean says.

 

“Deeeeaaaan,” Jo screeches as she slides across the wood floor in her socks and into his arms. “I’ve missed you, dickwad!”

 

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen reprimands. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

 

Dean just laughs. Even though Sam isn’t there, this feels like home – as much as anything can for him. “I missed you too, training bra,” Dean says, earning him a sharp punch to the shoulder. It hurts like a bitch, but it makes him smile because he’s the one that taught Jo how to throw that right hook.

 

Ellen comes back from the kitchen, passing bottles of beer to Bobby and Dean before dragging Jo back with her because, “Those potatoes aren’t going to mash themselves.” The two men settle comfortably on the couch with their beers and shout at the snowy football game on TV, cheering every time Tom Brady gets his pretty boy ass handed to him. When halftime comes, Bobby turns down the volume and looks at Dean expectantly. Never could get one by that old man, Dean thinks, fiddling with his empty beer bottle.

 

“A man was killed during a scientific survey related to an oil operation out on Lake Michigan” Dean pulls the journal out of his knapsack and passes it to Bobby.

 

“And here I thought you stopped by because you wanted to be with your family,” Bobby snorts.

 

“Please, Bobby. This is about family, too.” That’s all it takes for Bobby to relent and take the journal from Dean’s hands with a sigh.

 

Dean pulls out the photograph he got from Henricksen’s wallet and passes it over. “Any idea who this guy is?”

 

Bobby barely has to look at the photo. “Sure, that’s Dick Roman.”

 

It’s all Dean can do to not fly off the couch. “Roman, as in Roman Industries?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the one, with a capital Dick. What’s he got to do with this?”

                   

Dean pushes on, ignoring the question. “Why would a child with supposedly no medical condition be taken to the hospital for a monthly examination?”

 

“I don’t know, Dean,” Bobby says with frustration. “There could be a lot of explanations. Do we really have to do this today?”

        

“Bobby, please…”

  

“Jesus Christ, I thought only your brother could work those damn puppy dog eyes,” Bobby huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, maybe he didn’t have an active medical condition, but they suspected something latent and were trying to measure the progression,” Bobby suggests.

                  

“You’ll look through the journal,” Dean asks, already knowing the answer.

 

“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll look through it.”

 

“Soup’s on, come get it while it’s hot,” Ellen yells as she and Jo fill the dining room table with enough food to feed a small army.

 

“Thanks, old man,” Dean says, clapping Bobby on the shoulder as they head to the table.

 

“Jackass,” Bobby mutters fondly.

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

Knowing he had been calling off work a lot recently, Dean went in to the shop the morning after Christmas to try and get caught up. He pushed aside the thoughts of Castiel that kept creeping up on him throughout the day, still trying to decipher the meaning of, “We will keep him safe.” By late afternoon Dean had completely finished two of the cars he had been working on and a third was now just waiting for some parts that were on order. He picked up his bag, flipped off the breakers, plunging the shop into darkness, and headed for the train station. He looked through random shop windows as he walked, not really paying attention until something in a coffee shop made him freeze in his tracks. He stood in disbelief as he watched Castiel sipping coffee and having a conversation with none other than Dick Roman. “Motherfucker,” Dean mutters, glaring through the glass before turning and stomping away just as Castiel looks up.

                 

“Dean, wait,” Cas yells, running down the sidewalk, still trying to pull on his coat. “It’s not what you think.”

 

Dean whips around and gives a frigid laugh. “’It’s not what you think?’ Really, Cas? That’s the best you got? Maybe next you can give me the, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ speech. You were having a cozy little chat with Dick Fucking Roman, what else am I supposed to think, huh?”

 

“It’s not like that. He passed me on the street and recognized me from the funeral. He stopped me to ask how Linda was doing.”

 

“And what, you thought maybe you’d get to know each other a little better over some coffee,” Dean spits.

 

“Basically, yes. I agreed to join him for coffee because I thought I might be able to get some information on Roman Industries.”

 

“Sure, Cas,” Dean says, turning back to walk to the train.

 

“Dean,” Cas says loudly, grabbing him by the arm and spinning him around

 

“You don’t trust me.” It’s a statement, not a question.

 

“I don’t trust anyone,” Dean says, yanking his arm free and marching across the street.

**~  ~  ~**

 

Dean is furious by the time he gets home. He throws his bag onto the floor and pulls a beer from the fridge before dropping onto the couch. Kevin’s cigar box is sitting on his coffee table and Dean grabs the suction cup from inside. He remembers seeing Kevin with it before. 

                

It was a Saturday afternoon and Dean had been dozing on the couch when he heard Linda yelling in her apartment. “Get out, you bastard! I don’t know what you want, but we don’t have it. Just get out!”

 

On a hunch, Dean went down to the first floor and peered into the small space underneath the stairs. Kevin sat trembling, tucked into the dark corner, tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks. His knees are pulled tight against his chest, arms wrapped around them protectively, one hand clutching the rubber cup. 

            

Dean fidgets idly with the suction cup, slapping it onto his beer bottle and dragging it across the table by the string. He’s pretty sure a giant light bulb just lit up over his head because suddenly he pulls the suction cup free and is running down to the stairwell where he had found Kevin hiding. Crawling underneath the steps, Dean starts feeling around for anything loose or out of place. There’s a small access panel, but it’s locked securely. He starts feeling at the tile trim along the base of the wall when suddenly he sees one that looks like the grout is cracked around it. He presses the suction cup against the tile and tugs on the string, pulling the tile away from the wall to reveal a small hole that has been chipped through the drywall. After some work to make the hole big enough for his hand to fit, Dean reaches inside and pulls out a dusty cassette tape.

 

Dean takes the stairs back up to his apartment two at a time. He carefully blows some of the loose dust off of the tape before placing it in Kevin’s Walkman. The sound is faint and filled with static and humming. He can hear noises and something that sounds vaguely like a voice, like some ghostly sound effect from a bad movie. This tape holds the answer, Dean’s sure of it. Now all he has to do is find out what secrets it holds.

          


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be smut!

Dean arrives at the harbor and, after some searching, finds the rustic looking houseboat that matches the description he’d been given. He hops onto the deck and heads down a narrow stairway. A man sits with his back to him, facing a wall of patched together computers and random electronics. “Mr. Fitzgerald? I’m Dean Winchester, we spoke on the phone.”  

 

The guy spins around in his chair and hops up to greet him. He’s younger than Dean expected, almost as tall as Dean himself, but painfully thin. “Yeah, good to meet you, man! But, please, call me Garth. How did you even find me in the first place?”               

 

“It wasn’t too hard. When I started asking around about audio restoration, your name was always the first to be mentioned. You have quite the reputation in Chicago.” Dean watches the man carefully, he’s looking right at Dean’s face, but something is the slightest bit…off. Dean silently raises one arm and waves it back and forth. Nothing. Damn, the dude’s good. If he hadn’t been paying attention, Dean might not have even noticed that Garth was blind.

 

“Who am I to argue with that,” Garth grins. “So, you have a mystery tape?”

 

Yeah, here,” says Dean, digging the tape out of his pocket and placing it in Garth’s hand. “It may have sustained some water damage. It’s playable, but whatever’s on there, I can’t make it out.”

  

Garth plops back down in the old rolling office chair and inserts the cassette into a tape deck, holding a large pair of headphones against one ear. “There,” he says, rewinding the cassette and hitting a button so the audio is playing through a set of speakers on his desk. “Do you hear the woman’s voice?”

 

“What voice? I can’t hear anything.”

 

“That’s because you don’t know how to listen, young padawan,” Garth says with a sage wink.

  

“It’s not a conversation; it’s some kind of an announcement through an intercom - a paging system – maybe an airport or a hospital. Someone is whispering…”

 

Dean is practically leaning against the speaker, but he still can’t make out anything but noise. “Can you tell who it is or what they’re saying?” 

                 

“It’s a man, he’s in a lot of pain. There! Do you hear the beeps? It’s rhythmic, some kind of monitor. He’s definitely in a hospital.”

 

“What’s he saying?”

 

Garth makes some more adjustments and rewinds the tape to listen again. “It’s hard to understand him, he’s struggling to get the words out. He’s talking to someone. Kevin? He’s trying to explain something that happened. Something about digging…no, drilling, some kind of rock. There,” Garth perks up. “Did you hear that? That’s the sound of a laker horn.”

 

“What the hell’s a laker?”

 

“Freight ships that run the Great Lakes hauling cargo. If I had to guess, I’d say your tape was recorded somewhere farther out on Lake Michigan, or maybe Superior.”

 

“Dude, that’s amazing!”

                 

“You know what they say,” Garth smiles, “The loss of one sense makes the others that much stronger.”

 

“Can you clean up the tape?”

  

“I thought this was going to be something challenging,” Garth says, smiling. “Give me an hour to work my magic and I’ll have it ready for you, my friend.”  

  

**~ ~  ~**

 

Dean ducks into a nearby diner for a burger while he waits. The place is empty, save an old man in the corner and the bored waitress leaning against the counter. The food isn’t great, but the coffee is strong and hot. He nurses his second cup, staring out the window, mind wandering to blue eyes and messy, dark hair. He passes on the offer of a third cup and pulls some bills from his wallet, placing them under his empty cup before pulling on his coat and heading out into the cold. He turns up his collar and reaches into his pocket for his cell phone.

 

“Dean?” Just one word and that gravely voice is already doing things to Dean’s body. The phone sex alone would be amazing, Dean thinks. “I thought I told you to get rid of your cell phone.”

                 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Were you really just following me?”

  

“Yes.”

                 

“I want to kiss you again…among other things.”

 

“Jesus,” Cas breathes into the phone and Dean can practically feel the heat of him flushing over the phone.

 

“You like that idea, Cas?”

 

“Yeah…yeah I do. Dean, where are you? Dean?”

 

A boat horn sounds in the distance and Dean smiles, disconnecting the call as he approaches Garth’s houseboat.

 

**~ ~  ~**

 

“Garth,” Dean calls, heading down the stairs. “I’m back, were you able to get it cleaned up?”

 

When Dean reaches the audio setup, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Garth is sitting in his rolling chair with his back toward Dean and a large set of headphones over his ears. “Garth,” Dean says louder this time. There’s no movement and Dean notes that Garth’s head is tilted at an odd angle.  Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, Dean puts his hand on the man’s shoulder and spins the chair around. Garth’s lifeless eyes stare back at Dean, the handle of a knife protruding from his chest, the front of his body soaked in red.

 

Dean’s barely had time to process the scene when he hears the door to the upper deck slam shut. He runs up the stairs and pulls at the handle only to find the door locked. He rattles and pounds and kicks against the door, but it won’t give. He runs back downstairs and is suddenly thrown off balance as the previously moored boat begins moving, floating out into the canal. He steadies himself and runs back toward Garth to see if he can find a phone when several small explosions tear open the side of the boat. He looks around frantically for an escape route and sees the water pouring in through the massive hole in the hull. He’s not a strong swimmer, but Dean knows it’s the only way out. He shrugs off his heavy leather coat, it belonged to his father and he hates the thought of leaving it, but he knows it would only soak up the water and weigh him down. He takes a deep breath and dives through the hull, against the current of the rushing water and kicks as hard as he can. His lungs are on fire as he pushes himself through the freezing water and sharp chunks of ice.   He surfaces a hundred or so feet from where the burning boat is rapidly sinking. He sucks in painful lungfuls of frigid winter air and swims to a service ladder at the side of the dock, crawling out of the frozen water, making it only a few feet away before collapsing into unconsciousness as he sees bright lights approaching.

 

   **~  ~ ~**

 

Castiel throws his old Land Rover in park and shoves open the door, running to Dean’s lifeless body. He flips him over onto his back and places his fingers against Dean’s neck searching for a pulse. Not finding one, he moves into action, tilting Dean’s head back slightly, then putting his hands together and placing them against Dean’s sternum, beginning a series of forceful compressions. After a minute with no response, he pinches Dean’s nose closed and breathes slowly into his mouth. He repeats this a second time before going back to the chest compressions. Another thirty seconds pass before Dean starts to cough and choke, spewing out mouthfuls of water.

 

Once he is certain that Dean is breathing on his own, Castiel lifts him in his arms and carries him to the car. Dean is shivering uncontrollably and barely conscious. Castiel pulls off his heavy wool coat and wraps it around him, cranking up the heat as high as it will go. “Dean,” Cas shakes him. “Wake up! Talk to me!”

                  

Dean makes some incoherent mumbling sounds as Cas starts to drive. “Come on, Dean, stay with me. I need you to talk.”                  

 

“Tired,” Dean says.

 

“I know, but you can’t sleep right now. Sam. Tell me about your brother. What’s he like?”

 

“He’s a freakin’ giant,” Dean mumbles.

 

“Oh yeah? What else?” Cas keeps one hand gripped tightly on Dean’s left bicep as he drives.

 

“Hair. Goddamn long hair, Samantha.”

                 

“Samantha? I bet he loves that. What else?”              

 

“Call ‘im, bitch. He calls me jerk...” Dean starts trailing off again and Castiel shakes him roughly.

 

“What else, Dean? Tell me more.”

                 

“Smart. Shit, he’s so damn smart, Cas. Not like me. He’s so good.”

 

 “You are very smart, Dean, and very good. You have an amazing heart,” Castiel says, risking a glance at Dean.

 

 “You’re just saying that to get in my pants.” Dean is being snarky. Castiel takes that as a good sign.

 

 “I can’t deny that I want that, but I mean it all the same. Now come on, keep talking to me, Romeo.”

                 

 “The tape. That’s why they killed Kevin. Did you find the tape?”

                 

 “No, I’m sorry, Dean.”

 

**~ ~  ~**

 

Castiel brings Dean to his apartment and pulls off his freezing, wet clothes, pats his skin gently with a towel and helps him into a set of Castiel’s sweats. Dean doesn’t even try to resist as Castiel towel dries his hair and tucks him into bed. He pulls the covers up over him and steps back into the bathroom.

 

“Kevin was my responsibility; I should have paid more attention. His death is on me.” It hurts Castiel’s heart to hear the pain and defeat in Dean’s voice.             

 

“No, it’s not. Here, take these,” he says, handing Dean a cup of water and four white pills. “They’ll help with the pain. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

 

“Things are supposed to be so simple when you’re a kid,” Dean says.

  

Castiel runs a hand through Dean’s still damp hair. “They weren’t for Kevin…or for you.”

 

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” Dean mumbles into the pillow.

 

“Sleep, Dean,” Castiel says, turning off the bedside lamp.

 

“Stay with me, Cas,” Dean whispers.

                 

“Of course,” Cas says, pulling a nearby armchair closer to the side of the bed. “I’ll be right here”

                 

“Here,” Dean says, holding out his hand in invitation. Castiel considers this for a moment before sliding onto the bed behind Dean, wrapping an arm around his waist and maneuvering them so Dean’s back is flush against his chest.

 

“I’m sorry I’m a dick,” Dean says. “I do that because I don’t know what else to do.”

 

“I know,” Castiel says softly. “You’re only trying to protect your heart. Now sleep.”

 

“’m not the little spoon,” Dean mumbles before drifting off.”

  

**~ ~  ~**

 

Dean wakes up alone late the next morning, rubbing his eyes and looking disconcertedly around the unfamiliar bedroom until he remembers the explosion on the boat – and Cas. Cas who saved him, brought him home and cared for him and crawled into bed to hold Dean when he was a pathetic mess. Wonderful, Dean is the chick in this non-relationship.

 

His head is pounding and he drops back down, burying his face in the pillow. The pillow that smells distinctly like Cas. Fuck. He considers going back to sleep until his brain registers something important. Bacon. Oh yeah, that’s definitely bacon.

 

Dean steps into the bathroom, washing his face and taking a quick swig from Cas’ bottle of mouthwash before padding barefoot into the kitchen. He leans in the doorway admiring Castiel standing at the stove in a pair of black flannel lounge pants and a worn gray t-shirt, humming off key as he pulls the sizzling bacon from the skillet and pours in the eggs. Dean moves silently behind Castiel, wrapping his arms around an amazingly toned waist and nuzzling the back of his neck with tiny kisses. Castiel doesn’t startle, just turns his head slightly and smiles as he continues to work the eggs.

 

Despite the fact that Dean’s brain function has migrated to distinctly more southern regions, Castiel prepares them both a plate, a cup of coffee, and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and places them on the table. They don’t speak, but it’s not awkward. It’s actually really comfortable and Dean doesn’t even know how to process that. It doesn’t hurt that Cas eating from a fork is better than a lot of the pornos Dean has watched.

 

After they’ve finished eating, Dean gathers the dishes and puts them in the sink. He brings back the coffee pot and refills their cups, but as he moves to put the pot away, strong fingers circle his wrist and pull him back. Cas takes the pot from Dean’s hand and sets it on the table before pulling Dean onto his lap.

 

The kiss begins slowly, Castiel’s tongue running along the seam of Dean’s lips, begging for entry. He bites lightly at Dean’s lower lip, and pushes inside when Dean gasps. It feels like Castiel is everywhere, his tongue filling Dean’s mouth, hands sliding underneath the thin fabric of Dean’s t-shirt, dragging back down to grasp his hips and pull their groins together. Dean throws his head back and lets out a loud groan, allowing Cas to latch on to the pulsing vein in his neck.

 

“Cas, please…” And Dean Winchester definitely did not just fucking whimper. Cas breaks free from Dean’s neck and returns to plundering his mouth, sliding up and down Dean’s tongue like he’s giving the filthiest blowjob ever. Dean pulls away long enough to yank both of their shirts off and throw them to the floor. He wraps his arms around Cas’ muscular shoulders and slides their bodies together to get that skin on skin contact that he is so desperate for.

 

Castiel growls, digging his fingers into the flesh of Dean’s ass and pulling him tighter, the hard lines of their cocks rubbing desperately through the soft fabric of their pants, then suddenly Cas is lifting him, Dean’s legs wrapping around his waist. His mind is reeling with images of Cas fucking him right there on the dining room table, but instead Cas carries him back to the bedroom with a strength that is driving Dean insane.

 

He braces to be thrown on the bed, instead Castiel continues to support the entire weight of his body as he kneels on the bed, resting Dean gently down on his back. He straddles Dean’s hips, cupping his face and leans down for a kiss so tender, so beautiful that it terrifies Dean. He tries to force the issue and break the tenderness by bracing his feet on the bed and trying to thrust his hips up, but Cas is having no part of it, continuing to hold Dean in place as his slow, worshipful kisses begin to trail down his body.

 

Cas is treating him like something so precious that Dean doesn’t even know how to react. Thankfully, once Cas slides between his thighs and begins nosing at his cock, Dean loses pretty much all-remaining brain function. He alternates between slamming his head back against the pillow with his eyes squeezed shut and leaning up to watch Cas give amazing little kitten licks all over his reddened head. He lets out a garbled yelp as the wet heat of Cas’ mouth plunges down his length in one swift movement, nose tickling at the wiry hairs at the base.

 

Dean can barely remember to breathe, let alone be coherent enough to be thankful for Cas’ lack of a gag reflex. It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone besides his right hand and his body is firing on all cylinders. Suddenly he feels blunt fingers shoving into his mouth as he moans. He doesn’t stop to think about what it means, just begins sucking, tongue dipping between the digits, coating them with his saliva. His tongue has an immediate effect on Castiel who is now moaning around his cock, sending vibrations all the way up his spine.

 

Cas pulls his fingers from Dean’s mouth and continues sliding loosely down Dean’s length then suctioning tightly as he pulls back up. Dean barely registers his hips being lifted until he feels slick fingers brushing over his puckered hole. Cas doesn’t waste any time, burying his middle finger all the way inside Dean in one slow but firm motion. “Fuck, Cas, more,” Dean moans. It burns and is slightly uncomfortable, but Dean can’t wait, he needs this, needs Castiel to take him. Blue eyes look up to meet green, Cas’ mouth still stretched wide around him as he presses in another finger. Much to Dean’s dismay, it’s several minutes before Castiel decides he has pumped and scissored him enough to add a third finger. He’s so full, but he know that’s nothing compared to what is still in store. “Cas,” he growls, grabbing a fistful of dark hair and pulling those plush pink lips off of his wet cock. “Now! I need you inside me. Need you to fuck me.”

 

Cas looks up at Dean like a starving animal. His eyes are blown black with lust, just the thinnest sliver of blue remaining. He lifts Dean’s right leg so his ankle is resting against Cas’ shoulder. He dips his head and bites the soft flesh of Dean’s inner thigh before laving the skin with a long stroke of his tongue. Dean’s left leg is lifted to mirror the right on the other side of Cas’ head, a sharp bite given to his ankle before again being soothed by warm lips and tongue. Dean watches as Cas spits into his hand and begins to stroke himself. It’s rough and filthy and gorgeous and Dean knows he isn’t going to last long.

 

In another show of surprising strength, Cas grips Dean’s thighs and hefts his ass several inches off the bed before lining up and pushing himself inside. Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t remember feeling this full, this consumed, ever in his life. It’s perfection. Then Cas starts moving and it’s ten times better. He’s holding Dean’s weight easily, using the powerful grip on his thighs as leverage to pound into Dean’s body at a punishing pace, the slightly awkward angle allowing the head of Cas’ cock to brush against Dean’s prostate with every press inside. “Cas! I can’t…I’m so close, man…please, don’t stop,” Dean babbles as he feels the heat building inside him. He tries to reach for his own cock, aching for any kind of touch, but Cas bats his hand away roughly, tightens his grip on Dean’s thighs, lifts his ass another inch higher and somehow manages to fuck into him even harder, each thrust shoving his body higher up the bed. It’s not even a minute before Dean is coming, untouched, the tilted angle of his body causing him to paint white stripes across his own chest and face, and that’s all it takes for Cas to bury himself with one final thrust, shooting deep inside Dean’s body.

 

Cas doesn’t pull out, but lowers Dean’s legs until they are around his waist, then he’s leaning over Dean’s body, licking the come from his chest and stubbled jaw. He moves to pull away, but Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s back, urging him to relax and let his weight settle on top of Dean. They stay like this for the better part of an hour, nuzzling each other’s necks and kissing and snuggling, in a very manly fashion. Shut up.

 

Unfortunately, when the endorphins finally wear off, Dean’s fear of intimacy comes rushing back. He’s lying in bed with a beautiful sex god of a man who just gave him the fucking of a lifetime and he’s terrified. He can’t do this. He’s Dean Winchester and as awesome as the past few hours were, there’s no way any good can come from this.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says, “Pulling away from Cas and his beautiful, warm body. “I have to go…I have to…I just have to go.”

 

Cas tries to hide the intense pang of hurt he feels, sensing the fear that Dean is clearly radiating. “Where will you go? You can’t stay in your apartment. They just tried to kill you, and I don’t think they will fail a second time.  Do you have anywhere else you can go?”

 

“I don’t know. I guess I could go to Bobby’s for a little while.”

 

“Alright, let’s get cleaned up. I’ll drive you.”

 

**~ ~  ~**

 

“There’s a car following us,” Castiel says, eyeing the rearview mirror. “Don’t turn around!” Just as they are about to pass the next side street, Cas yanks the steering wheel sharply to the right and speeds away before the car behind them can make the turn. He turns left two blocks ahead and then left again to get back to their original route. He hangs back until he sees the dark gray sedan pass, waits for another few cars to give them a buffer, and then pulls back into traffic behind it. Dean’s torn between wondering how Cas knew how to do that and thinking about how damn hot it was.

 

The sedan seems to have given up the chase and they continue to follow it out to the harbor where it pulls to a stop near the gangway of a large ship. Cas pulls his Rover behind a stack of shipping containers to give them some cover. They take in the flurry of activity surrounding the ship, dozens of massive wooden crates being craned aboard and unpacked, Dean snapping some pictures with his phone. The passenger door of the sedan opens and neither of them is surprised to see Dick Roman step out.

               

A few more minutes pass and they aren’t finding any particularly helpful information, so Cas drives away from the harbor before they are discovered, going back to the original plan to drop Dean off at Bobby’s

 

“They found something when they were drilling,” Dean says. “Something that killed members of their first survey group, but whatever it was, it was important enough that they sent another team back in.”

 

Cas nods, checking the mirrors for any indication of a tail. “So, before he died, Kevin’s father recorded a message with all the details about what happened on the site. Somehow, Roman finds out and goes after Kevin, except they killed him and they still didn’t have the tape. Now they’ve killed an innocent man because he did and tried to kill you, too.”

 

“We’ve got to find out what’s on that tape, Cas. It’s the answer. I know it is. They are already preparing for the next trip out to the platform. I’ve got to find a way to get on that ship.”

 

“I think I know someone who could help,” Castiel says, reluctantly.


	10. Chapter 10

“This is the autopsy report for Heng Tran,” Bobby says, flipping to a marked page of the journal on his dining room table. “The report lists traumatic injury resulting from an explosion as the cause of death, but I don’t buy it,” Bobby says, pulling the scans from the sleeve. “His internal organs were seriously degraded, but that’s not the worst of it. Look at this image from the CT scan.”

 

Dean leans in for a closer look and immediately sees more of the tiny, white squiggles. “What the hell is that?”

                 

“It’s the worm, the parasite. Livyatan Furtum, often referred to as Leviathan. Dean, no one has ever seen pictures of them before, they’re prehistoric. Adler must have discovered them.”

 

“Somehow the Leviathan entered the victims to use them as a host. Eggs were nested and when the larvae hatched, they headed directly for the brain. There would have been thousands of them. In essence, they take over control of their host. The host can exist for a short time in this state of possession, but eventually the internal organs begin to degrade and start producing a black ooze. Very peculiar behavior for a parasite to kill off its host, that’s typically considered very bad manners.”

 

“Okay, but wait,” Dean says. “I thought you said it was extinct?”

 

“It is. Well, it was. This shouldn’t be possible.” Bobby fixes Dean with a harsh stare. “Son, I think you are getting involved in something a lot more dangerous than you understand.”

 

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that. But the kid, Bobby, I can’t let his death…his murder, just be brushed away.”

 

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? And your neighbor, how is he involved in this?”

 

“Honestly? I’m not really sure. He has an electronics repair shop, but he never goes to work. Sometimes he knows too much. He lies to me.”

 

“So you decided to fall in love with him?” Dammit if that old man can’t read him like a book.

                 

“I’m not in…I don’t know what I am, Bobby.”

 

“Boy, I know you better than just about anyone, maybe even better than you know yourself.”

 

“It just can’t be worth it,” Dean says in frustration. “Nothing ever ends well for me. Why even take the chance?”

 

“There’s no doubt you’ve been handed the short end of the stick more often than not, but I have to believe that there is something good out there for you. You’ll never know if you don’t take the chance.”

 

“So you think one day I’ll settle down and have the apple pie life like you and Ellen,” Dean scoffs.

 

“I would give anything for you to have what Ellen and I do,” Bobby says with a seriousness that makes Dean’s chest constrict. Now, get out, it’s late. Old men need their rest.”

 

**~  ~  ~**

 

Dean is slightly pissed off that this meeting with Castiel’s “friend” requires him to wear a suit, until he realizes that it also means Cas will be wearing a suit, which is pretty much the equivalent of sex on a stick. He has to laugh when Cas walks out of his bedroom, somehow having managed to put his tie on backwards. Dean undoes the knot and slips the tie from underneath Cas’ collar, flipping it over and tying it properly, sliding the knot up to rest against Cas’ adams apple and no he wasn’t going purposely slow, he just wanted to make sure he did it right. That’s all.

 

They walk the few blocks to the parking garage to pick up Cas’ car and head out to a ritzy casino on the east side of town. Dean continuously sneaks glances at Cas as he drives. The strong cut of his jaw, he had shaved so his omnipresent stubble was gone for the time being and he smelled so damn good. Dean couldn’t help but slide a hand onto the other man’s thigh.

 

Cas jumps slightly at the touch, which only serves to egg Dean on. He squeezes lightly, dragging his hand higher and higher up Cas’ thigh, reveling in the squirming reaction he was getting.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says, warningly, voice all smoke and gravel.

 

“I thought about you all day,” Dean whispers into his ear. “Your hands on me, your mouth on my mouth. The things I want to do to you Cas…” Then he’s licking the shell of Cas’ ear, teeth grazing the lobe as his hand slides the rest of the way home, cupping Cas’ rapidly filling cock.

 

Castiel turns his head to claim Deans’ mouth in a rough kiss, eyes darting back to the windshield every few seconds to make sure they aren’t about to crash into anything. Dean smiles against him, pulling his mouth away and focusing all of his attention on getting Cas unzipped. “Shit,” Cas breathes, as Dean pulls his cock out begins to stroke him.

 

Dean pauses long enough to pull Cas back for another kiss. “Gonna suck you off Cas, take your cock all the way down my throat, make you come in my mouth so I taste you all night.” A horn sounds sharply to their left and Cas has to jerk the wheel to bring them back into their own lane, making Dean feel pretty damn proud of himself. After a little maneuvering, Dean is half lying across the front seat with his head in Castiel’s lap. It sounds corny, but the man has a beautiful cock. Dean pumps him firmly, lapping at the head each time a pearl of liquid pulses from the slit.

 

Castiel is making pitiful grunting, whining noises above him and Dean finally takes pity on him, fastening his mouth around the crown and sucking, swirling his tongue around the head. Cas hisses and Dean feels the car jerk again as he slides slowly down Cas’ length. Castiel has a hand fisted in Dean’s short hair, not quite pushing, but definitely holding him firm. After a few more minutes of bobbing up and down, Dean relaxes his throat and takes Castiel all the way down. He can feel the head of Cas’ cock pressing at the back of his throat and Dean hums before swallowing around it and that’s all it takes for Cas to thrust his hips up and spill hot and salty down Dean’s throat.

 

When Dean has zipped Castiel back in to his suit pants, and returned to his own seat he asks, “This friend of yours, Balthazar. What exactly does he do?”

 

 “I suppose you could call it acquisitions. Imports, exports, that type of thing,” Castiel says, vaguely.

 

Dean arches an eyebrow. “So, he’s a smuggler?” Castiel just smiles.

 

**~  ~  ~**

  

They are ushered to a back corner of the casino and a waitress in a barely-there uniform, who has been paying special attention to Dean, goes to get them drinks as Castiel gives her a death glare.                  

 

 “Castiel,” a low, British voice says from behind them. Dean turns to see a slim, blonde man in an expensive-looking suit pulling Cas in for a hug. “It’s been such a long time, darling. I’ve missed you.”

 

“It has been too long, Balthazar,” Castiel says with a polite smile.

 

“You’re looking well,” Balthazar says, before turning his attention to Dean and performing a lewd full-body appraisal. “And you, my dear stranger, are looking positively delectable. Why is it that we have not met before? Is he yours, Cassie?”

 

Castiel, now flushed red to the tips of his ears replies, “He’s not mine, he’s…we’re…this is Dean Winchester and I think you may be able to help him.”

 

“Oh, I can be very helpful, darling,” Balthazar purrs, stroking a hand up and down Dean’s bicep.

 

It does not go unnoticed that Castiel is suddenly standing up straighter and has stepped another six inches into Dean’s personal space, their shoulders now touching. Also, Dean’s not positive, but he could swear that he just heard the man growl, and if that isn’t sexy as fuck, he doesn’t know what is.

 

Balthazar, greatly amused by his friend’s possessive display, merely laughs and claps Dean on the shoulder. Alright, come now, before Cassie clubs you over the head and drags you back to his cave. How can I be of assistance?”                  

 

Dean pulls out his cell phone and shows Balthazar a picture he snapped of the ship in the harbor. “This ship, I need to know who chartered it and where it’s going.”

 

“That, my darling is the _Abaddon_. It’s technically a lake freighter, albeit a greatly modified one. Whatever it is they are doing must be worth a fortune for all the work they’ve done on her.”

 

“So, they have their own captain and crew?” 

                  

“Not necessarily. It would not be uncommon for an operation like this to find its own independent captain. One that understands discretion and plausible deniability based upon wages that will be larger than average, and can supply a crew that will do the same.”

 

“And where would they find a captain like that?”

  

“At that table right over there,” Balthazar subtly tips his head to the right. “Captain Benjamin Lafitte. Not the most charming of men, mind you, but you’d be hard pressed to find a better captain. He used to sail freighters in the Gulf of Mexico, but after he lost his family he moved here and has been traversing the Great Lakes. He takes the jobs no one else will touch, provided the price is right.”

 

“He does work for you?”

 

“We have a mutually beneficial business arrangement,” Balthazar smiles. A moment later a man in a simple black suit steps behind Balthazar who nods as something is whispered in his ear. “Excuse me for a moment, will you,” he says. “I’m afraid that duty calls.”

 

As soon as Balthazar is out of range, Castiel turns on Dean. “This is not a game. If you go on board that ship, they will kill you.”

  

“I need to know what happened to Kevin, Cas.”

 

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into by getting on that boat. You don’t even know where it’s going.”

 

“It doesn’t matter where it’s going, when it gets there, I’ll finally find out why they killed Kevin.”

 

Before Cas gets the chance to continue the argument he catches sight of several men in suits being trailed by police officers heading toward them. He grabs Dean by the arm and starts dragging him toward the door, catching Balthazar’s eye as they go and gesturing toward the men behind them. “What the hell,” Dean starts, trying to pull his arm away.

 

“They’re here. Don’t turn around just keep walking. Balthazar will be waiting for you out front with a car.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“I’m going to keep them occupied. Go to Bobby’s house. I’ll catch up with you there as soon as I can.”

 

“Mr. Winchester? Mr. Winchester!” The men are shouting at them, running as Cas pulls Dean through the glass front doors and grabs a bronze stanchion pole, jamming it through the door handles to buy them some time. He braces his back against the doors as the officers begin pounding behind him. “Open the doors,” they shout.

 

Dean turns back, grabbing Cas and kissing him deeply before Cas shoves him away, yelling, “Go!”     

                

A blood red Jaguar screeches to a stop in front of Dean and he pulls the door open and jumps inside. Dean barely has the door shut before he turns to Balthazar, “I need you to help me get on the _Abaddon_.”

 

Balthazar shakes his head and chuckles, “And just how do you expect me to do that?”

 

“Just talk to Lafitte, please.”

 

“The problem, darling, is that Cassie doesn’t seem to want you to go, and I am more than a little in his debt.”

                 

Dean’s jaw tenses and he tries not to think about what type of debt that could be. “I’m doing this with or without your help or Castiel’s.”

  

Balthazar lets out a long sigh that tells Dean he’s in. “You really just get by on your looks, don’t you? I suppose it would be a shame for that pretty little ass to get torn to shreds. My cell phone,” he says, pulling a business card from his jacket. “Call me when you’re ready.”   

 

“Thank you, Balthazar. I just need to pick up a few things, but I’ll be ready soon.”               

 

As they approach Bobby’s house they notice several police cars parked in the front. Balthazar drives a block past before he drops Dean off to sneak around to the back of the house. He starts to slide in the back door when he catches a glimpse of Bobby escorting an officer through the living room and out the front door. “Yes, officer,” Bobby says, “We’ll be sure to let you know if he makes contact.”

 

Two minutes later, Dean finds Bobby yanking him inside and into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on, boy? There’s cops posted here and at The Roadhouse looking for you!”

 

“They set me up, Bobby. I’m getting close to figuring out this murder and they will do anything to stop me.”

 

“There has to be another way to fight this, we can get you a lawyer,” Bobby says desperately.

 

“There is no other way, Bobby. I’ll end up having an accident just like Kevin. They’ll say I resisted arrest or tried to escape and I’ll end up with a bullet in my back.”

 

“What’s your plan, then?”

 

“I’m going to need to pack a bag with a few tools and warm clothes, then I need you to smuggle me out in the back of your car. I’ve got someone who can help me; I just need you to get me to him.”

  

“Goddamnit,” Bobby grumbles, but goes to get his keys.

 

Knowing that they surely have a trace on his cell phone by now, Dean calls Balthazar from Bobby’s landline. “Where are you,” he asks as soon as the call connects.

 

“Almost to the marina, meet me there,” Balthazar says, disconnecting the call swiftly.

 

Bobby pulls car out of garage and is immediately met by one of the officers. “Emergency at the hospital. Bastards always call just as I’m getting in bed,” Bobby grumbles. The officer nods sympathetically, taking a cursory glance in the backseat, and waves him through.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean stays cramped in the trunk of Bobby’s car until they reach the marina. Balthazar is already on board a small cabin cruiser with the engine running. Neither man says anything, but Bobby pulls Dean in for a tight hug before watching him jump on board, the boat pulling away from the dock and out onto Lake Michigan.

 

After half an hour on the water, they spot the _Abaddon_ and Balthazar cuts the engines, allowing his boat to drift silently closer. Dean hefts his bag, but before he can drop over the side of the boat to transfer to a service ladder on the side of the ship, Balthazar puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to change your mind? If Cassie won’t treat you right, then Uncle Balthy is always here, darling.”

 

“First of all,” Dean says, “‘Uncle Balthy’ is just plain creepy, and second, turning around isn’t an option. I have to do this.”

 

**~ ~  ~**

 

The deck of the _Abaddon_ is quiet when Dean crawls overs the side. The first thing he notices are the stairs to the upper deck that are heavily chained off with signs warning against unauthorized entry. He walks to the interior of the ship where he can hear some rowdy voices. He pushes open the door to the mess hall and is met by a chorus of wolf whistles and notices a pair of crewmen eyeing each other at his arrival. He’s feeling kind of lost and vulnerable, when he sees a scruffy young guy rocking a mullet headed his way. “It’s about time you showed up,man. Name’s Ash, also known as Dr. Badass,” he says, sticking out a hand.

 

“Alrighty then,” says Dean, giving him a firm shake. Dude looks like a stoner, but Dean kind of likes him already.

 

“I’ll show you around, give you the lowdown on how things run onboard. But come on, Cap wants to see you first thing,” Ash says, pushing him outside the mess hall and to a narrow stairway on the outside leading up to the bridge. He knocks on the glass window and waits until a stocky man in a dark, thick wool coat and matching hat motions them in. “Here’s the guy you’ve been waiting for Benny…I mean, Captain.”

 

“Thank you, Ash, that’ll be all,” Lafitte says, dismissing him.

 

The captain stares Dean down for several uncomfortable minutes before he finally speaks. “You’re on board my ship to be a cabin steward. That means scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, laundry duty, and whatever else I tell you.”

 

“Yes sir,” Dean says with a sharp nod.

 

“The group that is sponsoring this trip has representatives living on the upper deck. That entire deck is off limits to anyone but them. If I find you even thinking about going up there, I’ll have you locked up until we’re back at port. Am I understood?”

 

“Yes, sir. I won’t be a problem,” Dean offers.

 

“Somehow, I seriously doubt that,” Lafitte says.  

 

   **~  ~ ~**

 

Dean is carrying a crate of dirty linens across the deck. He casts an eye up to the mysterious upper deck and sees the shadow of a man through one of the curtained windows. He sets the crate down outside the door to the ship’s laundry and takes a quick look around before ducking into the engine room. It’s empty at first glance, until Dean’s nose leads him to a corner behind one of the engines where he finds Ash sitting on the catwalk smoking a joint.

 

“Hey, man,” Dean says, casually, sitting down beside Ash, passing on the offer of a toke. “What’s on the upper deck?”

 

“Damned if I know. I’ve worked on a lot of chartered jobs before, but man, I ain’t never seen nothing like this show. Those guys upstairs, we never see ‘em.  Their meals and laundry get sent up through a little elevator job in the galley so we don’t ever have to interact.  Benny says he doesn’t even know where we are going, only that they will give him a new set of coordinates at the beginning of each day. If you ask me, this whole thing is fucked.”

 

“Who the fuck are these guys,” Dean asks.

  

“Crew’s been askin’ that about you, too,” Ash says, looking at Dean. “Benny never lets strangers on board. Word is you’re a cop.”

 

“Do I look like a fucking cop to you,” Dean asks, not having to feign insult.

 

“Well, you kind of have cop hair…”

 

“Take that back! And I’d watch it with the assumptions there, mister mullet.”

 

“Hey! Don’t disrespect the mullet. It’s an American classic.”

 

“You keep telling yourself that. Now come here and help me,” Dean says heading for the galley, Ash grudgingly snuffs out his joint before trailing behind him.

 

Thankfully the galley is empty when they arrive and Dean heads directly for the dumbwaiter.

 

“Oh hell no! No way I’m getting in there. I’m claustrophobic,” Ash balks.

  

“You’re not going. I am.”

 

“Really? You sure you’re gonna fit in there? I mean, you’re kinda…” Ash gestures awkwardly at Dean.

 

“I’m sorry, did you just call me fat?”

 

“No!  No, you’re just…bulky. You don’t have the lithe physique of Dr. Badass,” Ash says, sliding his hands down his slim build.

  

“Fucking hell,” Dean says, folding himself into the small compartment. “Just send me up and don’t go anywhere. If I’m not back in an hour, go get Benny.”

  

“Sorry, no can do, amigo.”

 

“Why the hell not,” Dean snaps.

 

“He’s my uncle. He brought me on board to get me clean. Trust me; you do not want to see that motherfucker when he’s angry.”

 

Dean arches an eyebrow and fixes Ash with a stare.

                  

“No way, man, you would narc me out? After everything we’ve been through?”

  

“Damn skippy, now send me up.”

 

   **~  ~ ~**

 

Once the elevator comes to a stop at the upper floor, Dean uses the blade from his pocketknife to lift the latch securing the outer door and pops out into a small kitchen area. He sneaks out quietly, not finding any indication of company. Just outside of the kitchen are several glass-walled cubicles that look to be set up like small laboratories. He sees medical and lab testing equipment, computers, microscopes, almost everything you’d expect to see in a full laboratory. One of the cubes has a series of maps affixed to the walls and spiral bound reports stacked on the desk. There is a bookshelf filled with DVDs. He flips through them until he finds one labeled, “Roman Industries Board Meeting.” He checks again to make sure he is alone, and then slips the DVD into the computer on the desk.

 

After a moment of static, Dick Roman appears at the head of a long boardroom table. “Gentlemen, I am very excited to be able to share with you a monumental discovery that we have made during a survey of one of our recently-acquired oil platforms. While on a routine dive of the area, our men found an underwater entrance to a previously undiscovered cave just on the shore. What we found inside this cave, well, it is no exaggeration to say that it will put Roman Industries in the forefront of global energy technology.”

 

“What we found, my friends, is an energy-producing meteorite, the fragment of a planet from the beginning of creation, back from the very origin of the solar system. We have opened up a tunnel into the cave from land and are in the process of studying its stability and potential methods of transport.”

 

“There is a drawback, however,” Adler interrupts. “This discovery has also released a lethal prehistoric organism that was believed to have been extinct for millions of years. Unfortunately, some of our men when they were diving in the melt water around the meteorite on our last expedition were exposed to this organism and subsequently died. The only survivor is a child, who, unfortunately, ran into the water in an attempt to reach his father, one of the divers. Ever since this incident, this child has been kept under observa…” suddenly the DVD cuts off.

 

Dean ejects the DVD and shoves it into his jacket pocket before sliding the next one into the computer. His heart stops as the video begins with the image of Kevin lying on a stainless steel exam table in just his underwear. Adler is examining the boy, shining bright lights into his eyes and drawing blood samples. “The Leviathan is always fatal, but only once it reaches the internal organs. We do have evidence to suggest that it can exist for a longer period in younger people, we hypothesize this is because their immune systems are stronger.” Dean ejects the disc, he can’t stomach any more.

 

Backing out of the cubicle, there is only one more room at the end of the hallway. This one also has glass walls, but is fashioned more like a study, with a sofa and leather armchairs and a bar next to a lit fireplace. Dean opens the door silently and slips inside. As he approaches the back of one of the armchairs, he hears the rhythmic sound of someone breathing deeply. It’s Roman, slouched down in the chair next to an empty wine bottle. Dean palms his pocketknife and silently opens the blade. All it would take is one swipe across his bared throat and this is all over. Dean’s not sure why he’s even hesitating. He grips the handle tighter and takes a step forward, but just as he lifts the knife, he hears someone coming up the stairs.

 

He scrambles back to the kitchen and jams himself back into the dumbwaiter. He can hear the person that has come upstairs collecting empty wine bottles and heading for the kitchen and raises his knife, ready to attack. The man is just opening the doors to the dumbwaiter and Dean’s hiding spot when he notices that the DVD cases in the cube across from the kitchen have been scattered and opened. He tosses the empty bottles into the compartment and hits the button sending the elevator down as he stalks over to investigate.

 

“They’re out of red,” Dean says, shoving the empty bottles at Ash and unfolding himself from the elevator as soon as it hits bottom.

 

“Good to know.  Did you find out anything?”

  

“Enough to bring their sorry asses down.”

 

Dean runs out onto the deck and is immediately confronted by the two crewmen who had been eyeing him earlier in the mess hall. He slides over the side of the boat and climbs down the rigging to the next deck, but he doesn’t get far before he’s grabbed from behind by one and a tarp is thrown over his head by the other. He struggles against them as they pull him to the railing, trying to throw him overboard. Luckily for Dean, he still has his pocketknife and jabs the blade into the gut of the man behind him. He rips the tarp off of his head and slams the second guy’s head into the railing, knocking him out.

 

Next thing he knows, fire alarms start blaring throughout the boat and the sprinklers are activated. He looks around in a panic until he sees Ash come running around the corner.

 

“I lit a joint and held it up to the sensor. Fuck, Benny’s gonna have my ass,” Ash says. “What the hell did you do to make them want to kill you?”

 

“Hate to break it to you, doc, but they want to kill both of us now.”

 

A horn sounds and the onboard speakers come to life. “All hands, this is Captain Lafitte. We’re approaching the K13 platform and will be docked for half an hour. Once docked, all crewmembers are confined to quarters. No one is permitted on deck and no one is to leave the ship. I repeat, no one is permitted on deck and no one is to leave the ship.”

 

Back in his cabin, Dean stuffs the DVDs into his rucksack. “I need to get off this boat, like now,” he says.

 

“Ship,” replies Ash.

 

“What?”

 

“She’s a ship. Don’t let Benny hear you call her a boat.”

 

“Ash, focus! How am I gonna get out of here?”

 

“You’re in good hands, man. Dr. Badass has got just the plan, now come on.”  

 

The fire alarms and sprinklers have all been turned off as Dean and Ash sneak onto the main deck. There is a gangway leading across to the oil platform, but it is being guarded by a large man with a semi-automatic rifle.

 

“Okay,” Ash says, “Once the lights go out, give me a head start, and then follow me.” Dean watches from behind the corner as Ash takes a pair bolt cutters and cuts through the wiring conduit, plunging the deck into darkness. The guard pushes away from his post and goes to investigate the power outage. Ash runs across the deck and towards the gangway when Dean hears him let out a pained shout.

 

Dean takes off running. Ash is stumbling, still trying to make his way across, but he’s clutching desperately at his stomach. When Dean reaches him, he tries to grab the smaller man and pull him up. “Come on, get up, we’re almost there!”                 

 

“I don’t feel so hot, man,” Ash says, slipping down to the walkway. Dean pushes him to his back and sees a gaping hole in his stomach and he knows there’s nothing he can do to save him. “You need to go if you’re gonna make it,” Ash mumbles. “I think the doctor is out.”

 

“Alright,” Dean says, reluctantly. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Dr. Badass.”

 

“Don’t you forget it…” is the last thing Dean hears before Ash falls silent.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean runs toward the oil platform but security lights flood the gangway and he can see figures heading toward him and the only thing he can do is turn and run back onto the _Abaddon_. He sees one of the crewmen searching for him, but he’s able to duck into a cabin using his master key. He’s only inside for a minute before he hears someone else unlocking the door. The cabin is small and there’s nowhere to hide. He dives into the shower, holding his knife at chest level. He sees outline of the man through the shower curtain, prepared to stab, when a hand reaches blindly through the curtain and turns on the shower, drenching Dean in freezing water. After another moment, the hand reaches back in to check the temperature and brushes against Dean’s hand. The curtain is ripped open and Dean is standing face to face with Castiel.

  

“What are they paying you, Cas,” Dean spits. “Is it enough?”

 

“The g-government never p-pays well enough,” Cas says, holding him firmly while Dean tries to process exactly what that means.

 

Dean launches at Cas, trying to hit him, Cas grabs him, shoving him back against shower wall.

 

“Dean, listen to me. The FBI had some intel that suggested Roman Industries was involved in something dangerous on a potentially global level. They weren’t aware of exactly what they were doing and they needed to get someone on the inside. They hired me because I had a background in diving, because I was the kind of person that Roman needed. After a few meetings to gain his trust, they got me an apartment in the building so I could watch over Kevin. I had no idea he was sick.”

 

Dean shoves at Castiel’s chest. “All your bullshit about how much you cared for him, but really, he was just a job to you.”

 

“That’s not true,” Castiel says, keeping his firm grip on Dean’s shoulders. “It was a job when I first started, but I found myself caring for him. I loved Kevin. I thought that I could protect him, but…” Dean’s still fighting and Castiel slams him back against the shower wall again, forcing Dean to make eye contact. “Dean, listen to me. Every night I dream about him falling. I see him tumble off the roof and suddenly there are these massive wings sprouting from my back and I lift into the air and catch him in my arms before he hits the ground. Every night I save him, Dean, and every morning he’s gone.”

 

Dean feels those blue eyes boring into him and he wants to believe, he really does. Cas cups his face and makes him meet his eyes. “We can start over,” Cas murmurs, pulling Dean into his arms and kissing away his doubts.

 

“Roman and Adler are desperate. They are under extreme pressure to get their discovery presented to the scientific community. You can stay here in my cabin for a while, but you’ll need to get to shore as soon as it is safe. There are kayaks tied to the port side. The ice should be broken up enough for you to paddle through. Wait for me once you are ashore; do not go into that cave alone, Dean.”

 

Just as dawn breaks the next morning, Dean is slipping over the railing on the ship’s lowest level, cutting one of the kayaks free. From the upper deck, Dick Roman holds the curtains open, watching Dean paddle silently toward shore.

 

   **~  ~ ~**

 

Dean pulls the kayak onto shore in a densely forested area, about half a mile away from the cave coordinates. He briefly considers waiting for Castiel like he promised, but he’s so close, there’s no way he can stop now. He covers the kayak with some branches and piles of snow before setting off for the cave.

 

He’s not sure what he expects to find when he reaches the mouth of the cave, but it is eerily quiet. No guards with automatic weapons, no electrified fences, all he has to do is walk inside. The tunnel itself is dimly lit, but he makes his way easily. As he reaches the heart of the cave he sees the meteorite, surrounded by a pool of water that is giving off waves of steam.

 

There is some type of lighted rig scanning over meteorite. Roman is pointing to the scan results on the computer monitor as he talks to Adler, “You see how it's drawing energy from some sort of vacuum in the center?” At this moment both men turn around to look at Dean, distracting him just as one of the ship’s crewmen points a gun at the back of his head and shoves him closer to the meteorite.

 

“I knew you’d come,” Roman smiles. “You’ve been a royal pain in my ass, but I’m glad you got to see this amazing discovery before your untimely demise.”                 

 

“Why are you doing this, Roman?”

 

“Why?” Roman laughs, “Why, money, of course. Money, notoriety, more money. This is the biggest scientific discovery of the century, you buffoon!”

 

“So, what,” Dean spits. “You’re going to try and move this thing? Do you even care how many people you could kill?”

 

Roman pauses briefly. “Death is, generally speaking, unfortunate, but sometimes that is what it takes to get your message heard. Surely you can understand that?”

                  

“What about Kevin,” Dean demands. Adler turns around from where he is still monitoring computer readouts to see Roman’s reaction.

 

“The brat jumped into the damn water after his father fell in. It was Adler’s idea to keep him under observation after he had been exposed. The worm hadn’t even made it into his internal organs. The boy never even felt it,” Roman says, before nodding at the armed man behind Dean.

 

The crewman shoves Dean roughly to a side corridor in the cave. He lifts his gun and aims it at Dean’s head, but before his finger can squeeze the trigger, another gunshot rings out and the crewman instantly drops like a ton of lead.

 

“He killed my nephew,” Benny says, calmly from where he was standing behind the man. He picks up the crewman’s handgun and heads to where Roman is working at the computer with his back turned. Roman, however, sees Benny’s reflection in the computer monitor, spins around shooting the captain in the chest. Dean turns at the sound, giving Adler the chance to grab him from behind, but it isn’t much of a fight. Dean quickly knocks Adler back into the melt water, striking his head against the meteorite and slowly floating down in the water surrounded by a blossoming pool of red.

 

In a flash, Roman has his gun pointed at Dean and is advancing on him, herding him toward the pool of melt water. “Roman,” Castiel yells, running into the cave. He shoots Roman in the shoulder, causing him to drop his gun, but he is still stable enough to run for the tunnel. Cas nods at Dean and watches as he runs out after Roman just as another crewmember arrives. After a brief struggle, Castiel is able to knock out his assailant. He takes off his backpack and pulls out what looks like a small oxygen tank, except he unscrews the top portion to reveal a timer. He arms the explosive device, setting the timer for one minute and jams it amidst fuel tanks that are stacked to the rear of the meteorite.

 

“Roman,” Dean yells, chasing after him.

 

Roman has reached a small transport boat and is pulling desperately at the cord, trying to start the motor so he can get back to the ship. Finally he abandons the boat and tries to walk/climb his way over the floating chunks of ice that are covering the lake.

 

Dean watches the man stumble, growing weaker from the loss of blood. “The boy, Roman. Tell me about the day you killed him. You tried to pick him up after school that day, pull him into your car, didn’t you? But he was too quick, he ran and you couldn’t risk a scene in front of so many people.”

 

Roman looks at him for a moment before his face breaks into a wide smile. “You’re guessing, Winchester.”

 

Dean continues, ignoring the overwhelming urge to shoot the prick in his face. “Kevin made it home, but you were already there. He knew what you wanted and that you would do anything to get it. He knew you would kill him; his fear of you was even greater than his fear of heights. Maybe he tried to come by my apartment. I wasn’t home, so he kept running. You chased him all the way up to the roof, knowing it was the perfect way to get rid of him, to get rid of the evidence.”

 

Roman wobbles on the ice, looking back at Dean. “I never meant to kill him; I just needed to get that tape. I shouted at him and he turned around, but when he did, he tripped and fell forward, off the edge. There was nothing I could do.”

                     

“You’re lying, Roman,” Dean shouts. “He didn’t turn around when you called, he didn’t even hear you. Kevin was deaf.”

 

At that instant a massive explosion rocks the cave and surrounding area. Roman watches, devastated, as he sees all of his work in the midst of being destroyed. Another chain of explosions sends chunks of rock and ice into the water. Roman tries to scramble across the ice chunks to get back to the ship, but the explosion has caused large waves to rip across the surface of the lake, knocking him off balance and into the freezing water, fingers grabbing uselessly at pieces of ice before he finally slips below the surface.

 

Dean watches; half expecting Roman to rise out of the water like some undead movie monster, but it never happens. He doesn’t even turn to look when Castiel comes to stand beside him; he just laces their fingers together tightly and watches the ice ripple across the lake.


End file.
